Enharmonic Interval
by Aunt Kitty
Summary: REPOSTING AS REQUESTED/complete. A chance encounter puts Ducky back into the life of a woman he'd loved years ago. You can't go back and change the past-but sometimes you get a chance to change it in the here and now. Rated MA. Pairing: Ducky/OFC
1. Impromptu Cavatina

**Summary:** You can't go back and change the past—but sometimes, if you're lucky, the past catches up with you… and you get a chance to change it in the here and now.

**Notes:** **AU.** This story was started long, _long_ in advance of the end of season 6 and the beginning of 7. (I just hate posting a chapter here, a chapter there—it all goes up when it's done, even if it takes a year.) While some things have been adjusted slightly, I am choosing to ignore most of what happened from February 2009 forward. (Too much angst, if nothing else.) Ziva and Rivkin and the trip to Israel never happened (though she is on the fast track for citizenship and permanent NCIS status here, too); 2009 is pretty much what fall _**2008**_ was, once everyone came back to the team. And Mrs. Mallard is faring much better than she had been in seasons 6 & 7. (Fanfiction means being able to ignore the passing of a gifted actor.)

**Reposting.** EI was originally posted at the end of 2009/beginning of 2010. I started it at the _beginning_ of 2009 and screeched to a halt. Writer's block? Writer's town, verging on writer's _state_. A challenge posted on IMDb's NCIS board got me past it. It sat on the site, gathered friends… and then a group of self-appointed monitors began reporting stories that were in violation of site rules (often in violation only in their point of view) and people began losing their accounts. Rather than risk my account, I pulled EI because a) the sex scenes went so far beyond M we were verging on Z and b) about a fifth of the story is song lyrics. One story with two big no-nos. But there have been enough requests to repost it that I am doing so—and taking advantage of the chance to clean up some of the more glaring typos and other minor glitches.

**Betas ****and ****cheerleaders:** A huge thank you to **Tallis224** for many emails full of idea bouncing and tweaking. The fact that we both came up with similar ideas and little character bits independently… well, this is how _Volcano_ and _Dante__'__s_ _Peak_ ended up being released one after the other. GMTA and all that jazz. My eternal thanks to **LosingTrack**—her writing challenge got me past what had been a several months of writers' block.

**Comments:** Collected notes will be at the end of the last chapter unless it is imperative that you know it _now_. I have never been fond of footnotes; much preferred them at the end of the report.

**Genre:** General Drama/Romance

**Pairing:** Ducky/OFC

**Rating/Warnings:** Rated M: contains very mature, sexually explicit scenes (frequently gratuitous; this _is_ fanfiction after all) and situations in several chapters and random strong language throughout. Real life caution: Consensual sex _presumed_ to be between adults may not always be. No slash; no BDSM.

**Spoilers:** None

**Time****frame:** Spring of 1969; Summer 2009 forward

**Disclaimer:**All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

* * *

><p><strong>ENHARMONIC INTERVAL<strong>

by Aunt Kitty

_**Enharmonic ****Interval:** Two notes  
>that differ in name only.<br>The notes occupy the same position.  
>For example: D sharp and E flat.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: Impromptu Cavatina<strong>

_**Impromptu:** A short piano piece,  
><em>_often improvisational and intimate in character.  
><em>_**Cavatina:** A short and simple  
><em>_melody performed by a soloist  
><em>_that is part of a larger piece._

* * *

><p><strong>June, 2009<strong>

"Good morning, Ducky!"

Ducky glanced up from his computer screen, slightly surprised but with a broad smile. "You're certainly chipper this morning, Ziva. An attitude far too few people have on a Monday morning."

"Ah," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "But I have a surprise for you." She held out a hand, one finger hooked through thin string wrapped around a small pink box, the box dangling in midair.

"Doughnuts?" It looked like a bakery box; she and Abby had a fondness for the messy artery-clogging delights.

She shook her head. "No. They are things that would be perfect with morning tea. Or afternoon tea might be better… but I do not want to wait for you to try them."

"I can take a hint," he laughed. He filled the kettle and set it on the coil. "Earl Grey?" he asked, hand hovering above the tins of tea.

"That would be fine." She managed to keep the box tantalizingly just out of reading range as he walked back and forth setting up tea service on the cart. "It is a surprise," she chided when she caught him adjusting his glasses and trying to focus on the imprinted top.

He poured two mugs of tea, set out milk and sugar, and sat with an exaggerated look of patience on his face.

"Close your eyes." Smiling and shaking his head, he did as he was bidden. He could hear her untie the string and remove the lid. "Open your mouth… Do not worry," she said when he hesitated. "You will like it. I promise. Now… bite."

It was a testament to how much he trusted this acknowledged assassin that he bit down with no further hesitation. Definitely not a doughnut. It was something firm and crumbly and sweet—a cookie, or— "Ohhh…!" Memories of tea with his mother and grandmother flooded over him: piping hot tea, cups and saucers of paper thin bone china, tiny cakes with dusting sugar, slices of nut cake with soft butter, and sweet triangles of… "Shortbread!" He opened his eyes and saw her grinning down at him. "This is the genuine article, too. Homemade, none of that tinned—" he waved a hand dismissively. Walker's wasn't bad—for 'prefab' shortbread, it was quite acceptable. But nothing beat the real deal. The highest quality tinned shortbread was a Pinto; this—he took another bite, sighing—this was the baker's version of his Morgan. "Where did you find this?"

"Abby was invited to a… party… and asked me to go along as—mmh, backup, if you will."

"Backup?" He had finished the shortbread and was trying to unobtrusively peer into the box. Ziva took a chocolate wafer and pushed the box toward him. "What sort of party was it that she needed backup?" He resisted the siren call of the shortbread—there were easily a dozen rounds left—and tried to decide among the other dozens, finally taking a square decorated in dark and white chocolate.

"It…was a baby shower."

His mind tried to wrap around a growingly complex picture. _Abby_ at a baby shower. _Ziva_ at a baby shower. _Abby_ needing _Ziva_ to provide _backup_ at a baby shower. "What kind of baby shower?"

Ziva frowned. "The usual, I would say. Frilly food, silly games. Chattering females. It was for a sister of one of the sisters on her bowling team."

"I beg your pardon? A baby shower—for a _nun?_"

"No, for her sister!"

He held up a hand. "Wait. You mean a _non-religious_ sister—a _sibling_?"

"Yes, a sister—a sister of Sister Xavier Marie. I believe her name was Clarice."

"Thank heavens—no pun intended."

"Abby was afraid she would be the only 'Abby' in a room full of Muffies and Buffies and former cheerleaders." She plucked a macaroon from the box. "As it turned out, there were ex-cheerleaders, yes, but Abby was not the most unusual person there."

"I'm almost afraid to ask. Abigail is not run of the mill—and we wouldn't want her to be," he added hastily.

"No. But Sister Xavier's mother used to belong to a club. A motorcycle club," she clarified.

"A—a biker gang?"

"Not quite that bad. But her stories became very interesting when she got to her fifth or sixth mimosa."

"I almost wish I had been there." Almost.

"One of the Muffy-Buffies arranged for a local tearoom to do the catering. When we heard some of the cookies were Scottish shortbread, Abby and I decided we had to stop by this morning. They are on the way from my apartment, just not a street I had driven before. The owner says it is a family recipe."

"It's fantastic. Sublime. I don't know enough adjectives to properly describe it." He took a bite of a shortbread topped with delicately toasted almond slices and sighed in near ecstasy. "I've died and gone to heaven."

Ziva gave him an impish look. "You are the master of the tea—from now on, Abby and I shall be the mistresses of cookies and treats."

"Don't let Anthony hear that. He would take it in a whole different manner."

"But Ducky—that could be fun!" He wasn't sure… but he thought he saw her wink.

He shook his head. "I'll stand aside for that, if you don't mind. But you'll get no objections from me, 'mistress.' If I can start my mornings like this, I won't care what the rest of the day holds. I'm just surprised Abigail isn't here with us."

Ziva winced. "She is at the dentist. She broke Frank during the shower—she thinks it was caused by an olive pit. I think it was eaten by the mimosas." She leaned in confidentially. "They were quite strong. But she will not be in until lunch."

"Poor dear. We'll have to pick out the softest cookies for her."

"She will be so pleased that you like this—especially the shortbread, since it is from Scotland."

"Ziva, everything I've tried so far is fantastic. I _must_ stop there sometime. Mother would love this. Is it a new shop?"

"No—actually I recall seeing a mug for sale, they had a twenty-fifth anniversary a while ago."

"Good heavens, how have I missed them all this time?"

She shrugged. "It is a large city. It is a busy city. And you do not live here."

"But one would think…" he shrugged. "It doesn't matter. We've found it now. With twenty-five years under their belt, I'd guess they're staying. Where are they located?"

"Georgetown. Prospect near 36th." Her cell phone rang; she caught it before the third ring. "David."

Gibbs' voice was clear from a couple of feet away. "Where are you, Ziva?"

"Autopsy—"

"Good, grab Ducky, tell him to join us. Two dead Marines found behind the theatre at Union Station Mall. Grab your gear!"

"Mr. Palmer is not in yet, shall I drive with—"

"Ziva, he's a safer driver than you are, Ducky can manage on his own."

Ducky stifled a laugh at her slightly disgruntled face.

"Very well, I—" but she was talking to empty air. "There are times I hate when he does that," she grumbled.

"Don't we all," he said with a chuckle. "I'll put these in the refrigerator for safekeeping; it won't harm most of them, and I see some have fruit and jams that shouldn't sit out."

"The little ones with tiny strawberries are very soft," she said, handing him the box lid. "Those would be best for Abby after the dentist. Do you know where Union Station Mall is?"

"I could drive there with my eyes closed," he assured her. "Which is how I often prefer to drive with Mr. Palmer at the wheel."

"Good. I will see you there." She gave him a quick kiss to the cheek; HR be hanged, she and Abby treated him like a favorite uncle or grandfather. "Thank you for tea. I shall bring a new box of treats when this one is empty," she promised as she hurried toward the door.

"Thank you, my dear, I look forward—" his voice faltered. "To it."

No wonder the shortbread tasted like he was back in his grandmother's parlor; the name on the lid, _**Ealasaid**__**'**__**s**_, was an old-fashioned Gaelic name. It conjured up visions of kilts and green meadows, sweet heather and lilac, misty mornings carrying a piper's tune across the glen. "The briar and the rose," he murmured, looking at the artwork under the delicate script. He felt a wrench at his heart.

_As __the __song __says, __you __can __never __go __home__…_ He laughed shortly. _Moody __Blues, __wasn__'__t __it? __Of __course._

He slipped the lid onto the box, popped it and the milk into the fridge, left the tea things in the sink for washing up later, and hurried to the change room to pull on a jumpsuit.

Work. Thank God for work.

He stared at himself in the mirror. "You're getting old," he said morosely to his image.

And the day had started off so well.

/ / / / / / / / / /

**September 10, 2009 **

"Abby?"

Abby didn't even glance up. "Hi, Ziva. Got something?" she said listlessly.

Ziva plunked down into a nearby chair. "It is an epidemic."

That caught Abby's attention. "Epidemic? What? Where?"

"You!" She waved her hand. "No music, no Caf-Pow, you are as depressed as—"

Abby sat up sharply. "As depressed as—" she prompted. When there was no response, she filled in, "As depressed as Ducky?"

Ziva let out a deep breath. "Yes. You have seen it, too."

"Oh, Ziva, that's why I'm just sitting here—" she flapped her hands in frustration. "I don't know what to do! I've known Ducky since, jeez, it seems like forever, and once in a while I might see him get pissed off at someone, usually with a really good reason, but I've never, never seen him like this, I mean even when that whackjob stabbed him, damn, he had a really good reason to be depressed and he _was_, kinda, but he snapped back so fast, I mean, fast, considering, and Dr. Hampton, he had a really good reason to be depressed and he _was_, kinda, but he was okay after that ended I was really surprised—not surprised they were together, I mean, surprised it ended and I guess surprised he took it so well—"

"Abby—breathe!"

"Oh, Ziva! I just—I want to help him, I just don't know what to do! He wouldn't even let me take him out to lunch for his birthday later this month. I don't even know why he's so sad—even hugging him only works for a couple of seconds, he just pats my shoulder and says, 'I'm fine, dear,' and I'm still stuck not knowing what to do! He's been so quiet for, my god, weeks, now—"

Ziva nodded, shoulders slumped. "I understand your dilemma. It has always been Ducky to do the talking. Now I go downstairs for tea and _I_ do all the talking. I am running out of words!"

"Tea."

"Tea," Ziva repeated.

"Okay, this may sound stupid—"

"Abby, at this point I would ask Ducky's dogs for advice."

Abby slowly grinned. "What are you doing Saturday?"

/ / / / / / / / / /

**September 12, 2009**

"Mallard residence."

"Ducky! It's Abby. What are you doing at two?"

The same as he was doing the rest of the weekend: nothing. "Nothing set in stone, my dear. Why do you ask?"

"Ziva and I want to take you out to tea!" She was absolutely burbling.

_Oh, Lord. _

He really had to pull himself together. Yank himself up by his bootstraps. Something, _anything_ to snap himself out of this absurd pity party. He appreciated their concern, but he just wasn't in the mood.

But if it was bad enough that they were conspiring to take him on a—a _field_ _trip_ outside of the office, he really needed to do something.

_Well, __isn__'__t __that __how __you __get __over __the __megrims? __How __did __that __phrase __go__—__act __as __if, __and __the __feelings __will __follow? __Something __like __that._ "That would be nice." He forced a smile on his face, hoping it would come through on the telephone.

"Okay! We'll pick you up—"

"Ah, Abby? None of us own a car that will seat three." He thought of Ziva's little Cooper and Abby's long legs. Or Abby's vintage hot rod that would seat two—maybe two and a half… not to mention the driving habits of either young woman were enough to age him a decade. "Not comfortably, anyway."

"Oh." That stopped her in her tracks, but she quickly rallied. "Well, I'll come pick you up and we'll meet Ziva there."

"Where are we going?"

"It's that place Ziva keeps getting shortbread for you from." He tried not to wince at the scrambled grammar. "In Georgetown, you know, Ealasaid's."

_Too __late __to __back __out __now._ "Rather than have either of you drive back and forth—twice!—why don't I just meet you there?"

"But—but this is supposed to be a special thing for you, you shouldn't have to drive yourself to a treat outing!"

The smile was easier this time. "It will still be special, Abby, spending a Saturday afternoon with you and Ziva."

"Well… all right. I still feel like you're getting gypped."

"I'm spending a Saturday with two of my favorite people, Abby. That is far from being 'gypped.'"

He cradled the receiver with a sigh. Ha. It was those blasted cookies that had started this royal blue funk in the first place. Not that they weren't good; quite the opposite. It was the name, stamped in the center of the pink box. _**Ealasaid**__**'**__**s**_. Not common here in the States; common enough back in Scotland at one time, but slowly being pushed aside by the more frequent Elizabeth. Funny, he could name twenty or more women he'd met over the past forty years—Elizabeth, Liz, Beth, Betsy—and not one caused even the slightest flicker of pain. But the first time he runs into Ealasaid—and not even a person, a company!—he ends up in a fit of the blues worthy of a 'my dog died, my wife ran off, I lost my job and somebody stole my truck' country-western song.

"Oh, grow up," he said sharply, causing one of the dogs to bark. He patted the offended Corgi almost absentmindedly.

Everybody makes mistakes. Live with it.

/ / /

He half expected to fall apart just walking through the door, but it was quite the opposite. Ealasaid's was the quintessential tea room: lace curtains, fresh flowers, the smell of something wonderful baking and the soft buzz of conversations mixed with gentle _tink_ of cups being set on saucers. If you ignored the current mode of dress, it was like going back in time fifty years. The place was packed; Saturday afternoon tea was apparently the rage in Washington. Several young women clad in just-past-calf-length dark dresses and sparkling white pinny aprons glided effortlessly through the tables, ferrying pots of tea and plates of sandwiches and sweets. Two more were running the retail counter, filling bags with tea and boxes with cookies and tarts and other goodies as quickly as possible to get through the long line of customers. At the far side of the room, a young man was handing teapots and service up to a woman on a stepladder; the holes in the display were silent testimony to the sales of tableware being as strong as the food. It was a homey, bustling place. Very pleasant.

But part of him still wanted to be home, indulging in his fit of pique. He caught sight of Abby and Ziva seated at a window table and smiled. How could a person keep dragging himself down into the doldrums with two such determined rescuers? They were only doing this because they cared. _Enough __self-indulgence, __Donald. __Bootstraps._

"So," he said, after exchanging cheek busses and taking the remaining seat that faced the front window, "the two of you have conspired to haul me back into the sunlight, eh?"

Abby gave Ziva a split-second look of panic, then both of them turned and in perfect chorus said, "What do you mean?"

"I have wanted to come for Saturday tea but did not want to come alone—" Ziva started.

He placed a hand atop one of hers. "Ziva…" He covered Abby's hand as well. "Abigail… Thank you. Thank you both. I appreciate this, truly I do. And I apologize—"

"Oh, Ducky, you don't need to—"

"Ducky, that is not—"

"Hush. I've been fair impossible to live with. And I've taken it out on my friends. My family," he corrected.

"You haven't been. Really." Abby's voice was small. "You've just been so sad, so—"

He nodded and squeezed their hands. "I know. And I'm sorry."

"Can we help?" Ziva asked.

"You have. It's over, it's done—" Amazingly, the words were true. It was as though walking through the doors had cast off a spell. "I'm fine. Really." He meant it, and they believed it.

Ziva actually sighed in relief. "It was like having the planet spin backwards."

"Next time—I know there won't be a next time, but in case there is a next time—talk to us? One of us? Both of us? Whoever, whatever—" Abby bit her lip. "We love you, Duckman. You never have to be alone."

He blinked, hard. "If we keep this up—"

Abby sniffled loudly. "You're right, you're right." She nodded firmly and handed around menu cards. "I was thinking the tea for four—even though we're three. I could eat two peoples' worth," she warned.

"Maybe we should order tea for eight," Ziva teased.

"You can always take home leftovers." A voice came from behind Ducky. He looked up and saw a waitress had slipped up behind them. "It's good to see you on a weekend, Ziva."

"Tori, what a surprise to see you out here."

"We're short two servers. One is taking a makeup exam, the other called in sick. That's the fun of food service—" she grinned. "The manager fills in wherever needed."

"So you own _Ealasaid__'__s_?" Amazing. The name fell out effortlessly.

"No, no, my Aunt Liz owns the shop. I came in, gosh, ten years ago when the company I worked for closed its doors with no warning. I couldn't even boil water when I first started," she laughed.

Ducky couldn't help but smile. She was quite fetching, pale blonde hair piled high in a bun, blue eyes dancing behind round spectacles. She had a rather Gibson Girl-ish look; belatedly he realized that all of the servers carried through that theme. He caught sight of her nametag. "Victoria, is it?"

"Oh, lordy, if anyone else had muffed it like this I'd write 'em up," she half-groaned. She put a practiced smile on her face. "Good afternoon, welcome to Ealasaid's. My name is Victoria and I will be your waitress this afternoon. Our specialty today is, of course, Saturday afternoon tea; the soups d'jour are vegetable beef and cream of mushroom." Ziva giggled and Victoria gave her a stern look. "Hush, Miss David, I'm trying to remember my lines, here!"

"You must come in with great frequency," Ducky laughed.

"Twice a week, like clockwork," Victoria confirmed. "Monday is usually assorted shortbread and a hodgepodge of cookies; Thursday is _always_ blueberry scones." She rolled her eyes. "God help us if we ever run out!"

Ducky nodded; that fit with what he found in the refrigerator. "We share tea at work," he said by way of explanation. "Of course, our tea is nothing like what you offer here, despite the sweets coming from your shop," he added, noting the descriptions on the menu. The tea sandwiches alone were three columns long.

"Oh, I am sorry!" Ziva shook her head in annoyance. "Tori, these are friends of mine from work. Abby Sciuto—Abby is our Forensic Specialist—"

"Hi!" Abby held out a hand.

"Victoria Cameron," Victoria said, shaking the offered hand. "Tori to most everyone."

"And our Medical Examiner, Dr. Donald Mallard."

She blinked, startled. "Donald… Mallard?"

He laughed; after 60-odd years, he was surprised when his name _didn__'__t_ get a reaction. "And most people call me Ducky." He took her hand and bowed slightly over it.

"Ducky." She quirked a smile. "Donald Mallard… Ducky. Very pleased—"

From the back corner came a shriek overlaid with a crash and a thud with a loud, "Mrs. Hamilton!" from the stock boy.

"Aunt Lizzie!" Victoria abandoned her table, dashing to the wall.

"Ow! Oh, damn—_ow!_"

That decided it; someone was hurt. Ducky followed the path of staring patrons to the disaster near the corner. The small stepladder was toppled over, and pieces of broken china and pottery lay on the ground surrounding the woman who was struggling to a sitting position. "Aunt Lizzie, what happened? Are you all right?" Tori fretted.

"I'm fine." It was just this side of a snap. She was facing the wall, a hand waving at Tori. "I'm mostly embarrassed. I slipped off the ladder, my pride is hurt, I'm fine, just _please_ go back to what you were doing!"

"You should go to the emergency room—"

"Good god, Tori, they can't x-ray a bruised ego." Her hand covered her face and she shook her head. "I am beyond mortified."

"It could happen to anyone," Ducky said comfortingly. "But your niece is right, Mrs. Hamilton. That was a nasty fall and quite a number of things you could have cut yourself on, you should be checked out."

Another negative shake; "I'm _fine_."

Now he knew how Ziva and Abby must have felt. He exchanged 'well, what can you do?' looks with Victoria. "Be careful," he cautioned as she shifted around, trying to find a better position from which to rise. "You might have—"

A sudden indrawn hiss cut him off. She had moved to put her left hand down to brace herself and just as quickly pulled it back before she even touched the floor—she'd barely moved it a few inches; he could see her right hand was clenched to the point of tremors.

"You _have_ hurt yourself. Here—let me—"

"No." Her voice quivered with pain.

"I'm a doctor," he said gently. She might be going into mild shock, especially if it was a break and not just a sprain.

"Please. _No_." She sounded almost plaintive.

She was stubborn, but his Hippocratic Oath was more so. He shifted slightly so that he could at least get a better look at her injured arm. "Even if it's just a sprain, you should get an x-ray." He had been told more than once that when he wasn't snapping at someone for gross incompetence, he actually had a soothing voice. He hoped they were right. He could see her one arm cradled in the other hand; he was willing to bet it was fractured. "You could have a greenstick fracture," he started, trying to ease her into the concept of broken bone/go to ER/get a cast. He broke off abruptly. A silver bracelet dangled from her limp wrist. A familiar silver bracelet.

No.

Impossible.

He leaned forward slightly, so that he could see her face. Her hair, blond with a generous sprinkling of gray, was tumbling down from the requisite topknot and tears sparkled on the lashes of her closed eyes. "Elizabeth?" he said softly. The "Ealasaid…?" that followed was barely audible. He could see the front of the bracelet: _Ealasaid_ written in delicate script, bracketed by tiny engraved roses and briar thorns. And he knew that on the other side would be…

"Donald." She bit her lips and slowly opened her eyes; he couldn't help but draw in a breath. The same odd shade of greenish blue that had caught his eye forty years ago. The same feeling of walking off a ledge and falling through space. The same hand grasping his heart and squeezing mercilessly that had followed later.

_Oh, God. _

"You… really do need to see a doctor," he said evenly. _See __a __doctor? __She__'__s __seeing __one __now._ "Go to the ER," he corrected. "I think your arm may be fractured."

She stared at the floor and nodded mutely. The fight was gone. "I'll, uh, I'll go over to Georgetown—"

"You can't drive with your arm like that," he chided gently. "Let me drive you—"

She silently shook her head. It hurt to admit it, but it was probably a good idea not to drive her. "Ducky?" Ziva placed a hand on his shoulder; she and Abby had followed him, and from the look on their faces had seen the disastrous reunion. "I can drive her to the hospital." She flickered a smile. "Not how I normally drive. I promise."

He barely managed a smile at her poke at herself.

"Mrs. Hamilton?" Ziva squatted down next to her. "Do you remember me?"

"Ziva. Yes. Of course I—of course I remember you."

"Let me drive you to the hospital. You need to get that looked at—soon."

She nodded, and started to rise from the floor. Ducky instinctively reached out to help her, pulling back abruptly and staring at the floor as he realized his attention was probably quite unwanted.

Elizabeth.

Ealasaid.

Ziva caught his eye and mimed talking on a phone; he nodded. Tori came running back with her aunt's wallet. "Call me when you know something?"

"I will," Ziva promised, helping Elizabeth around the debris.

"Well, let's get this cleaned up," Abby said briskly.

"No, you—" Tori objected.

"The more hands, the faster it will go," Abby returned. She took the whiskbroom and dustpan from the hands of the stock boy who was hovering at the edge of the group. "Trash can?" she prompted him.

It was a welcome break. Ducky stood out of the way while Tori and Abby quickly cleaned up the broken china.

Elizabeth.

Ealasaid…

The one who got away. The one he let get away.

"Dr. Mallard?" He jumped at the hand on his arm. "Why don't you and Abby come back with me?" She nodded toward the kitchen. "Megan just arrived, we'll be fine with only one missing on the floor." With a reminder to the young man to mop the area for china slivers and dust, she led Ducky and Abby back through the kitchen to a private office. She motioned them to take seats around a small table. "Be right back."

She returned in moments with a cozy-covered teapot and a tray of tea sandwiches. "English Breakfast?"

Ducky exchanged a look with Abby. "Fine," he said. He'd be happy with just about anything. At this point, single malt would be even better, but probably not available. Or advisable

Tori set the table with three place settings, dashed from the room and returned with a platter of cookies and sweets. "Okay, I am off the boards." She checked her wristwatch. "Tea should be ready. I swiped it from the line." She slipped into an empty chair. "I'll be mother." She poured three cups; Ducky took his usual milk, Abby a teeth-aching amount of sugar and Tori almost a full half a lemon and several lumps of sugar. "So," she said brightly, "we can talk about trivialities or ask the big question of the day." She looked at Ducky expectantly, almost speculatively.

He stirred his tea slowly. "Your aunt and I knew each other years ago." He tried to sound nonchalant. "Back in 1969, I posted to California for two months during my 5th year of medical school. Her father was the clinic coordinator." He gave them what he hoped passed for an amiable smile. End of story.

"I'm not trying to pry, Doct—Ducky," Tori corrected.

_Then please don't. _

"But—you were pretty shook when you saw Aunt Liz. And that bracelet—"

He nodded.

"_Ealasaid_. And _Donald_. I have never seen her not wear that bracelet. _Ever_. Even when I was a child."

"I'm glad she likes it," he said mildly.

"She's divorced, you know."

"No, I didn't know." It was a forty-year gap, a forty-year silence; he hadn't even known she had married—though the "Mrs. Hamilton" was a hefty clue.

"Mm-hmm. My dad died when I was four, Mama not long after. We were living with grandma and grandpa after Dad died. I don't remember it very well, but Mama wasn't well—and Aunt Lizzie came out from Washington. Mama said I would be staying with Aunt Lizzie until she got better and… it never happened." Abby reached over and covered her hand in sympathy; Tori smiled at the gesture. "She died from heart failure."

That brought Ducky up short. Tish would have only been about thirty, maybe a few years beyond, at the most; heart failure?

"I think, really, it was a broken heart," Tori said softly. "She was crazy about Daddy, everyone said. When he died…" she trailed off. She stared off, idly twisting the ring on the ring finger on her right hand. "So… Aunt Lizzie was my guardian, then my adoptive mother. Aunt Liz… but not Uncle Walter. He left the day we came back from California. For the longest time, I was sure that he left because I moved in."

"Kids always assume that if something bad happens, it's their fault," Abby said cynically.

"And they are usually wrong," Ducky said firmly, looking over his glasses at Tori.

She nodded. "Aunt Lizzie made sure to let me know that the divorce was a long time in coming—from the day they got married, she said once. They were married for only two years or so."

"Tori," he said uneasily, "I'm a little uncomfortable gossiping about Elizabeth like this."

"This isn't gossiping," she said reasonably. "She'd be telling you the same thing if she were here, asking about your wife, your children, and catching up after all these years."

Abby was staring into her teacup. Silent, for once.

"Not married. Never married. No wife. No children." He realized how short he sounded and tempered it with a smile. "So—how long have you lived in Washington?"

"Virginia, if you're picky… Gosh. Um… Aunt Liz already lived here, so—since I was almost five. Forever. You knew my mother, too, didn't you?"

"Patricia. Tish. Yes." He managed a pleasant tone. He had swung hot and cold with regard to Patricia, but had ended up being quite fond of her. The news of her death still shocked him.

"And you knew Uncle Dennys, too, right?"

"How is Dennys?" He suddenly remembered Dennys Stewart with a painful clarity. He hadn't thought about him in four decades—not directly, anyway.

It was Tori's turn to stare into her cup. "All things considering… pretty good. He doesn't drink any more—well, not like he did when he was younger, from what I gather. A glass of wine, maybe a beer. He still has… problems once in a while. But he's pretty together—more than most of the people out in California. He and Aunt Mad have been married for thirty, thirty-five years. Something like that. He still works in the music business, but he 'got religion' a while back—not over the top or anything," she quickly added. "He's not officially a minister, not licensed or anything, mostly works out of the local UU. He and Aunt Mad have fostered probably a hundred kids over the years."

"Unitarian Universalist," Abby translated. He nodded; he was familiar with the name and the term.

"He's a youth counselor. Darn good one, too. He and Mad live just down the way from Grandfather. He—my grandfather—got remarried after Grandmother died." She smiled. "His secretary, if you can believe that."

"Cecelia?" Amazing how the smallest details were in perfect order.

"One and the same. Actually, she was a good choice. She keeps him out of the doldrums. After Grandmother Julia died, he got this idea that _he_ was the reason his kids had all screwed up their lives."

"We are each responsible for our own choices," he said a little stiffly.

"Not necessarily," she said softly. A quiet knock at the door made her jump a bit. "Yes?"

One of the counter girls poked her head in. "Victoria?"

Nothing else was said, but more was communicated. "Please excuse me. I'll be right back." She slipped out of the office, leaving the door ajar.

Ducky quietly sipped his tea. Glancing over the rim of the cup, he could see Abby worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "Abby?"

"Ducky, I—I know Ziva and I brought you here to have the day off, to have some fun—I'm sorry, we had no idea—"

"Abby—neither did I. It's all right."

"I should leave."

"Nonsense."

"Ducky—you were in love with her, weren't you?" she asked. She looked miserable.

She'd get it out of him eventually, anyway. He sighed. "Yes. Very much so."

"She's still wearing your bracelet after all these years, she must still love you—"

"Habit."

She made an exasperated noise. "Ducky, a woman doesn't wear a piece of jewelry out of habit. Not like _that_."

"Abby…" He closed his eyes. "When I left California, I wrote more letters in three months than I had my entire life. No answer. Not one. I called, I finally reached her mother—she said Elizabeth had moved out—moved out and told her not to give me her address or number. So, apparently, it _is_ just habit."

"And she almost started crying when she saw you because…?"

"She was in pain?" he suggested.

"It was more than that. I could see her eyes, Ducky."

He shrugged. "I don't know. Delayed guilt?"

"She lied."

They both turned sharply toward the door. Victoria had slipped back in, silent and unnoticed. "Pardon?" Ducky said.

"My grandmother. She lied." Simple words, blunt tone. "Aunt Liz didn't know for years, Dr. Mallard. By then, it was too late." Her hands were folded at her waist, prim and proper. "Grandmother browbeat her into getting married because that's what all 'nice' girls do. Get married, have a family, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And she didn't think some medical student—especially a 'foreigner,'" she said with exaggerated distaste, "was good enough for her daughter. So she burned your letters… and lied on the phone. So then Aunt Lizzie ended up with a business-slash-poli-sci major who would earn as much as a doctor but have much better hours. Too bad he was a complete jerk." There was more than a tinge of bitterness.

He remembered the oh-so-solicitous tones of Mrs. Stewart. So sympathetic. So kind. Such a lie. He took a sip of tea, trying to quell his rising anger—and the sick feeling in his soul.

She let out a deep breath. "Except for when Mama died… that was the only time I ever saw her cry," she reflected as she slowly walked back toward the table. "Grandmother and Grandfather came out for a visit. I was fifteen, almost sixteen. Aunt Lizzie made sure there wasn't any alcohol in the house—but that didn't stop grandmother," she said with a tart smile. "She was blasted when they arrived for dinner—_in __vino __veritas_," she said drily. "I think she had a private stash in her purse, because she got worse and worse as the evening went on. I couldn't understand what she was saying to Aunt Lizzie—you know when people say things that only the intended party will understand—little snippy comments that finally just pushed her over the edge."

"It must have been a lot to do that," he said unintentionally aloud. "I mean—the Elizabeth I knew, it took quite a bit to even make her speak sharply."

Tori nodded. "She finally threw down her napkin and said, 'Library. Now!' and they both stormed out of there. I was left going, 'Coffee? Cake?' like World War Three wasn't breaking out twenty feet away behind closed doors. After forever, Grandmother comes stomping out like Godzilla going out of Tokyo, Grandfather and Uncle Den and Aunt Maddie apologize and go after her—and that was the end of _that_ family reunion."

"Wow," Abby breathed sympathetically.

"I went into the library and Aunt Lizzie was sitting in her favorite chair crying and crying and—" she shook her head. "She was my world. If I had stayed with my grandparents—" She rolled her eyes. "God, what a mess _that_ would have been. So for her to sit there, sobbing like her heart was breaking, it just killed me."

Ducky closed his eyes, opening them when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at Tori's understanding gaze. "Grandmother sank you two like a U-boat," she said gently. "Don't blame yourself." She resumed her seat and drank down half her tea in one gulp. "Aunt Lizzie told me everything."

_Probably __not._ But it confirmed a thought in the back of his mind—Tori knew her aunt's version of the past; she was looking for his as a comparison.

"You and another boy came over from Edinburgh for a couple of months."

"Fifth year students have the option of doing clinic work overseas," he explained. "It's a way of… broadening your horizons."

"You were the last two of the year. You had to come out every week for dinner, she said. And apparently my mother was—uh—the other boy—"

"She was smitten with Edward," he said smoothly. "A bit, anyway." There; that was polite.

"Aunt Liz said it was both of you—but you barely gave Mama the time of day. Which suited Aunt Lizzie just fine—since she fell head over heels for you when you walked through the door."

He blushed faintly and couldn't help but smile. "I think you're exaggerating."

Abby grinned and took a sandwich from the plate Tori offered. "I doubt it."

"I'm not. She said that when you told her you loved her, life was perfect. She would have waited forever. She sent dozens of letters—"

"I never—"

She held up a hand. "My grandmother 'mailed' them. So, when she never got an answer, Grandmother convinced her that you were just interested in a fling. It made it that much easier to push her into marrying Walter. Grandmother admitted she burned the letters. Yours and hers. And she lied to you on the phone when you called. I told her she should try to find you, but she figured you had moved on, had a wife, children… 'What would I say after all this time?'" She stared at him intently; she looked a lot like her mother, but without Tish's hard edges. "God brought you here for a reason."

"Tori—"

"How long have you lived here?"

"Ah—over twenty years," he said uncertainly.

"We've been out here over thirty, had the store here almost as long. D.C. may be a big town, but—come on. We didn't cross paths until _today_?"

"Ziva and Abby—"

"This morning, Aunt Liz said she's thinking of retiring. Turning this over to me and moving back to California."

His heart skipped a beat. "When?"

"The end of the year. Just talk—but she sounded pretty certain."

Three months. Maybe not enough time to sell a house, but plenty of time to pack and disappear.

"You would have missed each other. Again." She reached over and grasped his hand. "Call it God, call it universal balance—call it my grandmother trying to make right what she so royally screwed up—but you're here, now, for a purpose. You need to talk to her. She needs to talk to you." As if on cue, the telephone rang. "Private line," she excused herself. She hurried over to the desk and caught the phone on the third ring. "Ealasaid's. Oh, Ziva! How is—what?"

Ducky watched her intently. Her face was unreadable; she nodded several times, listening in silence broken by occasional noises of acknowledgment.

"When will she be out? That long? Okay, I'll come over when we close. I don't know how I can thank—" She grinned. "Ziva, you're like the little sister I never had. You know that. Thank you. I'll be over as soon as I can."

"How is she?" Ducky asked before she had even hung up the receiver.

"The bad news is, she needs surgery. They're going to have to put screws in, maybe a plate. She has three fractures—"

"From a fall that short?" he said sharply, over Abby's, "Oh, my God, poor Liz!"

"Her arm was fractured before. It healed 'well enough,' but this time it broke on the old fracture lines and left a lot of bone fragments." Tori gave him a measured look. "I told you Walter was a jerk."

_No. Oh, **no**. _

"If it's any consolation… he died in prison. His second wife pressed charges."

Ealasaid… People she had loved and trusted who had betrayed and hurt her, all gone, dead and forgotten.

_All __but __one._ "When will they operate?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"Just a bit. Ziva said Lizzie just went to pre-op, higher than a kite. That's the good news. Apparently, she's not in any pain and talking a blue streak," Tori laughed, oblivious to his inner demons. "She should be out of surgery in a couple of hours, we close at seven—"

"I'd—I'd like to go over. Now," he blurted out.

Tori slipped over behind him, set her hands on his shoulders and leaned over. "I think… seeing you will be just what she needs," she said softly. "Thank you, Dr. Mallard."

"Ducky," he said absently. "Everyone… everyone calls me Ducky."

* * *

><p>1<p> 


	2. Resonance and Prelude

**Chapter Two: Resonance and Prelude**

_**Resonance:** When several strings  
><em>_are tuned to harmonically  
><em>_related pitches, all strings vibrate  
><em>_when only one of the strings is struck.  
><em>_**Prelude:** A short piece originally  
><em>_preceding a more substantial work,  
><em>_also an orchestral introduction to opera,  
><em>_however not lengthy enough  
><em>_to be considered an overture._

* * *

><p><em><span>From <span>__the __University __of __Edinburgh __Medical __School __catalogue__:_

_**Year **__**5**_

_Recovers __all __the __topics __of __years __1-__4 and __includes __an __elective __period __of __eight __weeks, __when __many __students __broaden __their __clinical __experience __by __studying __overseas._

* * *

><p><strong>April, 1969<br>**

"Hey, Ducky!"

Donald Mallard sighed. "Hullo, Evan."

Evan Collins swung a leg over the refectory hall chair and made a face at his friend's plate. "Ugh. Mystery stew."

Donald shrugged. "Could be worse."

"Mmh. Could be better," Evan countered.

"Finish your exams?"

"Finally," Evan sighed dramatically. "That's the hard part of getting the last clinic—cramming all the examinations before we leave."

"Ah, but then we get to relax for two months, working abroad," Donald said with a grin. "Wondering the whole time _if __we__'__ve __passed_," he ended ominously.

"Don't say that," came a morose voice from the end of the table. Jennifer Driscoll was one of the few female students in their year; she spent every semester fretting herself into a nervous breakdown, worried over her final grades. The fact that she had been in the top two percent for five years didn't stop her. (Donald was sure she would die from an ulcer before she turned forty.) "You'll hex us all." She had her head pillowed on folded arms and was half-hidden under a slightly tatty jumper she had draped over her head.

"Got your posting?" Before Donald could answer, Evan tapped his breast pocket. "Washington, D.C., United States," he said smugly. "Working with injured Yank soldiers."

"You might want to drop the 'Yank,'" Donald counseled. "It's a bit… rude."

"Mmh. Good point. So, what about you?"

Donald tried to appear nonchalant. "USC. University of—"

"Southern California!" David Finch interrupted enviously.

"—Los Angeles Medical Center," Donald finished.

"Beach bunnies," David sighed.

"Bonfires, beach bunnies and Beach Boys," Evan added. "Surfin' USA!" He bobbed his head rhythmically to the tune in his head.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll have scads of time to learn to surf," Donald said with light sarcasm.

"Who's your pair?" David asked.

"Langley."

The other young men exchanged glances. "Tough luck," Evan finally said.

Donald shrugged. "Eddie isn't that bad."

"He'll have you doing all the work while he casts his line for every dish who walks by," David snorted.

Evan nodded. "And those Southern California girls—rowr," he purred.

Jenny muttered something that sounded like, 'sexist pig,' and wandered off toward the sweets area, probably in search of some soothing digestives.

"We're there to work, Evan," Donald reminded him.

"Don't tell me, tell Fast Eddie."

/ / / / / / / / / /

**May 1, 1969**

It wasn't his first transcontinental flight, but it was his first time alone. Well, without his parents anyway. It was a little amusing to see Edward Langley trying to appear calm and cool and brass his way through it—while clutching the armrests with white-knuckled hands.

By the time they landed in Southern California they were both jetlagged, exhausted and—despite being fed a couple of times—hungry. It seemed to take forever to clear customs, but finally they were in the lounge wondering how to get to the university when a young woman spotted them and waved. "Yoo-hoo! Hi! Are you the boys from Edinburgh Medical?"

Donald managed to not wince at her mangling of the name. "Yes. Donald Mallard, Edward Langley." He nodded toward Eddie.

"I'm Cecelia Ames, Dr. Stewart's secretary. But everybody calls me Sassy," she giggled, shaking hands in turn. Her platinum blonde curls bounced with every movement.

"I'm sure they do," Eddie murmured. Donald gave him a slight elbow to the ribs, but Sassy had evidently missed the comment.

"You boys _hun_gry? Dr. Stewart is _al_ways starving when he gets off he plane, don't they _feed_ people? _Any_way, he said to make you feel _right __at __home_, I know this _great_ pizza joint by the beach in Hermosa, I figure we could get something to _eat_, I could give you a _tour_, show you a_round_, they have dorm rooms for you at USC, Dr. Stewart is out of town, he'll be back tomorrow, you guys are going to _love_ him, he's just _great_, he wants you to come to dinner tomorrow, there's a car for you to use when you need it, it's _just_ like driving in England, just on the other side of the road—you've got the whole _week_end to settle in, you don't start clinic duty until _Mon_day, and it's only _eight_ hour shifts, not 24 or 36 or 48 like they make them do at the hospitals, that is just in_sane_, _I_ think it is, don't _you_?"

Donald and Eddie exchanged glances: _does __she __breathe __through __her __ears?_ By now they were in the parking lot and she was unlocking the boot to a sleek saloon. And she was still talking at the speed of light.

"—_hates_ taking a taxi, he just calls when the plane lands and I come and pick him up—"

She was as sweet as candyfloss, and just about as substantial. But she was one heck of a driver. While Donald was far more accustomed to left-side driving, right-hand traffic patterns were not alien to him. Eddie, on the other hand, was barely containing his terror. Seated behind Sassy, traffic was passing him on the 'wrong side' and everyone seemed to be trying a qualifying run for Le Mans. Including Sassy. Still chattering a mile a minute, she expertely wove in and out of traffic at speeds that seemed just this side of reckless. It was scant minutes before they pulled up in front of a small building with the sign "Gertrude's."

"_Gertrude__'__s_? For _pizza_?" Donald asked doubtfully.

"Best pizza in the South Bay. Now, if you want the best Chi_nese_, go to _Pancho__'__s_ in Manhattan _Beach_." She hopped out of the car and led the way up the walk.

Donald and Eddie exchanged looks. Gertrude's for pizza? Pancho's for Chinese food? Crazy Americans!

Crazy like foxes. It was the best pizza either of them had ever eaten. The spaghetti, ravioli and garlic bread were darn good, too. "Are we expecting company?" Eddie joked when she ordered what sounded like enough food for a regiment.

"You'll want to take the _left_overs home. All of the dorms have re_frig_erators—just make sure to mark your name on _every_thing, people are _pretty_ good about not stealing food. But tonight is _liver _and _onions_—ugh!—or macaroni sur_prise_. The surprise is the meat _probably_ ran in the last race at Hollywood _Park_." At their horrified looks, she laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm just joking! But Thursday and Friday are _really_ lousy days in the caff. _Don__'__t_ eat dinner there. Trust me."

They dutifully collected the leftovers and were soon underway at breakneck speed toward downtown L.A. By the time they reached the USC campus, they could have driven to Georgia for all Donald could guess. He tried to keep track of the route, but quickly gave up. From Sassy's comments, she was taking surface streets to show off some of the sights: several harbors, marinas and piers, MGM Studios, Westwood ("Including our arch_ri_val, UCLA!"), Sunset Strip, Rodeo Drive, Paramount Studios and on and on… and on…. "_Nor_mally, I'd just go four-oh-five to the ten to the eleven."

"Freeways," Donald murmured at Eddie's baffled look.

Sassy whipped them past the L.A. County Museum of Art, the La Brea Tar Pits and Page Museum, and the Museum of Natural History. "Coliseum is _that_away, _Rose_ Bowl is up in Pasa_de_na—too bad you weren't here for the _hol_idays. It's not the _same_ as an English Christmas, but the Rose Pa_rade_ is fun, too, _last_ year they trucked down _snow_, it was _so _much fun, we had a _snow_ball fight—"

Stories of Christmases past from all three of them carried them to the parking lot of the dorm. They signed in with the housemother, a tall, thin pleasant-faced woman named Mrs. Kelley. She mentioned in passing that she had three sons; it was plain her sharp eyes would miss nothing. "Mr. Langley."

"Eddie."

"Mr. Mallard."

"Everyone calls him Ducky," Eddie said with a grin.

Donald gritted his teeth. He'd been trying to ditch that hated name for some twenty years, to no avail. He was going to have to get used to it; so far, no luck.

Sassy giggled. "Ducky! That's—"

_Please. Don't let her say it._

"Cute!"

_Sigh._

The look Mrs. Kelley gave him had a flash of sympathy. She handed over two markers. "Names on the leftovers, gentlemen, and please date them; everything goes in the trash after one week." They did as they were instructed and handed back the pens. She took them on a whirlwind tour of the dorm—a huge kitchen where they stored their leftovers ("Anything more than warming up food, sign up in advance. And keep it clean!"), laundry room, common room ("The television is locked on _Star __Trek_ Friday nights. Don't fight it.") and a bank of pay telephones. ("Incoming calls to the switchboard only. No women allowed above the first floor, no women after nine p.m. period, the main doors lock at eleven—after that, you call security and wait.") Donald was assigned a fifth floor room, Eddie, the second floor, then they were back in Mrs. Kelley's office for the dispensing of bus passes, maps and local guides. When they thanked her for the mountain of information, she pointed to the grinning Sassy. "Don't thank me, I'd let you get lost and learn from the experience. Sassy did it all."

Donald flipped through the stapled pages; everything from bookstores to bars was listed—name, address, telephone number, street path or bus route and a full description of who, what and why once they got there. Sassy had even put colored number dots on the maps. She might sound like a ditz, but she was an office whiz. "Wow, Sassy, this is fantastic."

"Thanks!" She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. "Come _on_! Let's tour the _cam_pus before it gets too _late_, I want to get you to the rental car, _who__'__s_ gonna drive to the _Doc__'__s_ tomorrow?"

Eddie held up his hands in a universal don't-look-at-me gesture. Donald bit back a laugh. "I've driven in the States before, but not in California."

"We'll start on _sur_face streets, have you driven anything like the _free_way before?"

"Ah, yes, just—on the left side of the road."

"We can practice tonight," she promised. "Don't worry, I'll have you ready for the four-oh-five by morning."

/ / / / /

**May 2, 1969**

Sassy's directions were letter-perfect. 'Go _x_ miles to the intersection of _a_ and _b_; turn left (south), immediately get in the right hand lane, go 3 lights to _y_ (look for the McDonald's on the corner), turn right (west)' and so forth. It was impossible to get lost.

Donald actually recognized a few buildings from their arrival, some of the small cities around the airport. As they got closer to Dr. Stewart's, the casual beach atmosphere became more formal. Dr. Stewart lived in Palos Verdes, next to a city aptly named Rolling Hills—as they climbed higher and higher around twisting corners, Donald was very glad Sassy had procured an automobile with an automatic transmission. He had visions of trying to negotiate these roads while fumbling for a gearshift on the wrong side—and rolling backwards into the Pacific Ocean. Not a pretty thought. There were one-way streets and two-way streets where 2 cars could barely pass (except for dodging around parked cars—then it became a game of chicken). Streets had unnervingly similar names, and hard pack trails suddenly spit out riders on loping horses.

After the spread out properties of England and Scotland, Southern California was rather claustrophobic. But the landscaping in this area was lush, and as they drove further, the houses and lots grew larger (and probably more expensive).

Finally they reached Starstone Drive. "Oh, I could be happy here," Eddie sighed.

Donald couldn't help but agree. Dr. Stewart's property was as close to "old" England as you could get. A sprawling estate, luxuriant lawns, flowerbeds and large trees—the driveway alone could hold a couple of beach cottages they'd passed earlier.

Even the front door was intimidating. People could walk in four abreast with no crowding. The doorbell was an unobtrusive _bing-bong_—followed by loud barking. After a moment, the barking ceased and the door opened.

Donald heard Edward's sharp intake of breath and could understand why. Before them stood the personification of Evan's 'beach bunny.' He guessed she was in her mid-to-late-twenties: almost eye-level with Donald she was tall, she was leggy, she was bronzed, blonde and built… and she was wearing the smallest bikini imaginable.

"Ah, hello," Donald finally managed. "We're, um, Donald Mallard and Edward Langley?" He knew it shouldn't be a question—but he wasn't sure they were at the right house. Was this Dr. Stewart's… wife? Dear God.

"The boys from Scotland." She leaned against the half open door and gave them a wide smile. "You like L.A. so far?"

"Oh, yeah," Eddie gulped.

She gave a gurgle of laughter and threw the door open wide. "C'mon in. I'm Tish, by the way. Bizzy!" she yelled, making both of them jump. "Company!" She waggled her hand in a 'follow me' gesture; Eddie had no problem following—but definite difficulty keeping his jaw from scraping the floor. Donald smothered a grin and shut the door.

As they followed Tish into the living room, a large collie came bounding over, panting and wagging a plumed tail. "Robbie, flake off," Tish said, shoving the dog away. "Biz—oh, there you are."

The sound of sandals clicking lightly on tile made Donald turn. Another young woman—Bizzy, presumably—was crossing the room. There was a definite resemblance between the two—Tish had the dark 'dirty blonde' hair and tan of a beach-goer; Bizzy had hair a few shades lighter and a fairer complexion. She was also several inches shorter and looked to be a year or two younger. Tish had pale, electric blue eyes; Bizzy's were an equally unusual, hypnotic shade of dark aquamarine. Yes, there was a definite family resemblance and both were beautiful young women—but while Tish drew a person's attention by being 'way out,' Bizzy captured it by being slightly withdrawn from the rest of the world. Tish certainly had caught his attention… but it was Bizzy he wanted to look at.

"Patricia?" she prompted.

Tish—Patricia—walked over to the couch and picked up a pair of jeans. "New kids on the block," she said with an almost sultry smile. She stepped into the jeans—cutoff shorts, actually—and slinked them up her hips, almost a strip in reverse. "Edinburgh med students."

Donald looked away, hoping he wasn't blushing. He had seen plenty of naked bodies as a medical student, and there was never anything remotely sexual. But Tish managed to make getting dressed—not even getting _un_dressed—absolutely dirty. He caught a flash of sympathy in Bizzy's eyes. "Miss Stewart?"

She smiled genially. "Elizabeth," she clarified.

Patricia plopped onto a sofa. "Our brother couldn't say 'Elizabeth' so he tagged her with Bizzy. It stuck because she's such a busy, busy person." The humor was just a shade pert. Sibling rivalry?

Elizabeth shrugged faintly but didn't say anything.

"Oh—ah, Edward Langley—" Donald indicated Eddie. "Donald Mallard."

"Mr. Mallard," she shook his hand and turned toward Eddie.

"Everybody calls him Ducky," Eddie said jovially.

Elizabeth caught Donald's eye. "Then _I _shall call him _Donald_," she said sweetly, with a glint in her eyes. "Mr. Langley." She gave his hand the briefest clasp—just this side of a cut direct.

Donald couldn't help but take the moment as a personal triumph. Fast Eddie, stopped out of the gate. And this delightful young woman was in _his_ camp. Ha! He grinned, and was rewarded with a broad smile and flash of a wink.

"How may we help you?" The question was to both of them, but Elizabeth's gaze only glanced over Eddie, lingering on Donald.

He and Eddie exchanged uncomfortable looks. "We—uh—Sassy told us—" Donald stammered.

Patricia rolled her eyes. "Dinner. Be here at two for pool time before." When they nodded, she snorted. "She forgot to call you. Figures. Dad's flight was canceled, he's stuck in Tex-ass, and he won't be home until tomorrow."

Embarrassment warred with irritation over her dismissal of Sassy; defense of the ditzy but sweet and very helpful secretary won. "Sassy told us about the invitation yesterday and gave us driving instructions late last night. We haven't seen her since then."

"Cecelia is an excellent secretary, but she is not psychic," Elizabeth said evenly, looking at her sister with a raised eyebrow. "Dad called her at lunch."

Patricia merely shook her head and rolled her eyes again.

"I _am_ sorry," Donald said to Elizabeth, "we'll just—"

"—sit down and relax," Elizabeth said firmly. "Mom made other dinner plans when Dad said he'd be late. We're on our own for dinner. We were probably just going to do early burgers on the barbeque, but you're welcome to stay."

Donald opened his mouth to make a polite declination, but Eddie spoke first. "We'd love to." He was still looking adoringly at Tish.

"Great!" Elizabeth beamed. "Did Sassy tell you to bring your trunks?" At their nods, she dipped her head toward the yard beyond the doors. "Want to hit the pool?"

Patricia uncoiled herself. "I'm game."

_I'll bet. _

"I'll get—" Eddie made some ineffectual gestures. "I'll be right back." He hurried from the room.

"Oh, ah—" Donald realized he was holding on with a death grip to the box of chocolates they had brought as a hostess gift. He held the box out to Elizabeth. "Thank you for inviting us to dinner." The words were automatic; he was staring into her eyes, feeling like he was falling off a cliff, diving into dark, deep pools of cool water.

"Thank you," she said graciously, setting the box on the coffee table. "Oh, Jo's Candy Cottage! They're wonderful. My favorites."

"Sassy recommended them. She knows everything, everywhere." He couldn't resist getting in a little dig. "She's been a great help."

"She keeps Dad organized, so I guess she's not that bad." Patricia hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her shorts and canted one hip. "He always like that?" She jerked her head in the direction Eddie had gone and gave Donald a long up and down look and—ye gods—actually licked her lips.

"Like what?" he asked innocently. He might not be the best of chums with Edward, but this predatory female made him extremely uncomfortable. Free love and throwing off the restraints of your parents was one thing—this was a bit much. He could rationally argue that she wasn't much different from Eddie with his fortnight-long romances, but there was something that just felt wrong. You could be liberated and have _some_ decorum.

"Lizzie?"

Donald almost jumped. He hadn't heard anyone walk in; the quiet voice came out of nowhere.

A young man stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms limp at his sides. His hair, a dark auburn that bordered on brown, was tightly curled and spilled down his back, his beard and mustache a shade or two lighter. His eyes traveled over the three, a little confused.

"Denny. It's okay, come on in." Elizabeth smiled warmly and held out a hand. "Dennys, this is Donald Mallard. He's one of Daddy's exchange students. Donald, this is our brother, Dennys."

Her extra-gentle verbal handling pricked up his instincts. There was something different with Dennys—what? Mental retardation? Drug damage? "I'm pleased to meet you." Donald held out a hand. Dennys' eyes looked confused. No—they looked lost.

"Hi."

Tish leaned forward. "How's your headache? You have a good nap, Den?" He nodded. "Good. We're going to barbecue burgers. You want to help me start the grill later?" Predatory Patricia was replaced with Protective Patricia. Her look was plain: hurt my brother and I'll kill you. His impression of Patricia shot up several notches.

"'kay." Dennys ambled over to the corner bar and fumbled with the bottles. "Wanna drink?"

"No, thanks. Ducky?"

He'd dock her half a point, but he'd have to gig half the world. "No, thank you." Drive the crazy roads in those hills with alcohol in his system? Never.

Edward came back in, tossing Donald his swimming trunks. Introductions were repeated, and Dennys was delighted when Eddie took him up on the offer of a drink.

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. "I'd better run to the market."

"I'd be happy to drive you," Donald quickly offered. He laughed. "If you can direct me, that is. But I could use the practice."

Elizabeth grinned in response. "Thanks. Let me grab my purse." She was off in a swirl of skirts.

She accepted his handing her into the car as normal. It was a pleasant change from the women who saw civility as degradation. "Where to?"

"PV Plaza. Right at the stop sign."

"Will do." He made a U-turn at the end of the cul-de-sac and headed back to the corner. "I take it you don't care for the nickname Bizzy."

She cocked her head and gave him a look from the corner of her eye. "About as much as you like Ducky."

"Hmm. Oddly enough, it doesn't seem so bad when you say it."

She colored prettily. "I'd still rather call you Donald. Ah—turn right."

"Whatever you prefer." He waited for a pair of riders to sedately walk their horses across the road before turning. "Do you prefer Liz? Lizzy? Elizabeth?"

He would have continued the list, but she interrupted him with a laugh. "Elizabeth is fine." She smiled up at him.

"The Gaelic form of Elizabeth is Ealasaid," he blurted out, looking for something to fill the silence.

"I didn't know that." She rolled it around on her tongue. "I like it."

"So do I. Would you—could I call you—Ealasaid?"

"I'd like that." She had the most beautiful eyes, and they sparkled delightedly. "But...maybe you should call me that—when it's just us. Tish sometimes..." She shrugged.

"I understand." He followed her silent point off toward the left. "Elizabeth in public..."

"Ealasaid... in private." Her cheeks, which had lost their momentary blush, flamed again. It was utterly charming. "Oh!" She reached for the radio. "I love this—" She hesitated.

"Please." He turned the volume up. It was a British rock group that used a lot of symphony elements in their music. Nobody would have bet that a band using a classical orchestra would be at the top of the rock and pop charts, but they were. "I like the Moody Blues." Too bad they had missed most of the song.

"They're going to be at the Bowl next week." Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath. "If-I-can-get-tickets-to-the-concert-maybe-you-would-like-to-go-with-me?"

He blinked, trying to translate her rushed words.

"Oh, God," she groaned. "I can't believe I—"

"I—I'd love to."

She stopped cold. "Really."

"Really."

"Wow." She thumped back against her car seat. She listened in silence to the last minute of the song; when the final crash of a gong faded into the DJ's inane babble, she gave him an embarrassed look. "I thought you might have felt I was—uh—well—too forward."

It _was_ the first time a woman had ever asked him out. It was a little strange... but also kind of nice. Flattering, even. "Not forward so much as... forward-thinking. A step for equal rights?"

"Not too woman's libber?"

"Not what I think of as a woman's libber anyway," he laughed. "I hope I won't have to work that day."

"Ah—a plus to going out with the clinic coordinator's daughter."

"Nepotism?"

"Or something like that. Trust me. If I get those tickets—Dad _will_ let you off clinic duty if you're scheduled that night. Turn right and get over to the far left as far as you can, then take the first left turn—it won't be a light, it's easier taking the back way in."

It was a little unnerving to make such a quick maneuver after only a day of driving, but he pulled it off with minimum fuss and maximum success. A series of right turns led them to a shopping center with a large Safeway supermarket.

"That's the fun of living on Hamburger Hill. You either shop here or drive alllll the way into Torrance. Safeway's more expensive, but it's closer, and when you have perishables in the car..." she shrugged.

"Hamburger Hill?" he asked as they claimed a trolley.

"The nickname for this area. Comes from the theory that houses are so overpriced, you live on hamburger the rest of your life." She spied a sale poster in the front window and gasped. "Although three pounds for a dollar is pretty outrageous, if you ask me. Well... it's triple stamp day at least."

She made quick work of the store, gathering ingredients for a "proper" burger as she defined it, plus several kinds of cheese for those who wanted cheeseburgers. He watched her add crisps ("Chips," she gently corrected.), deli salads and so forth, finally joking, "Is it a neighborhood party?"

"Nope, just the six of us. Denny's girlfriend will be there by now. This will cover a day or two, maybe. Denny—Denny has a prodigious appetite."

He grinned. It was nice to hear someone who appreciated the English language.

"Okay, I made a chocolate cake this morning, but it feels like ice cream weather. Chocolate? Vanilla? Strawberry?"

"Any is fine with me. I've never seen a store so—so equipped."

"They call it 'full-service.' You don't have to make a trip to the butcher's, the baker's—"

"The ice-cream maker's?"

She grinned. "That, too." She grabbed a half-gallon of Neapolitan and one of mint chip. "I love mint chip," she confided. "Just about anything mint."

"So do I." They shared an almost conspiratorial smile and headed for the checkout counter. In short matter they were out and headed back home.

By his reckoning, the drive was all too short, even though he babbled like a fool to fill the silence. Elizabeth—_Ealasaid_—listened politely, a smile tugging at her lips. "Yep. Madalena's here." She pointed to a wildly painted VW van in the driveway. "I think you'll like her. She's interesting."

Interesting… was a good choice of adjective. Madalena fit her mode of transportation to a 't.' Her manner of dress was similar to Elizabeth's layers of colorful gauze, but wilder, more exotic colors and covered with beads and bangles and tiny mirrors. Her hair, barely constrained by a headband made from a wide tie of batik-dyed material, was a thick fall of reddish-chestnut waves that was almost long enough for her to sit on. If he had to choose someone to be the poster child for Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, she would be in the top three. She was also one of the friendliest, most genuine people he had ever met. Dennys seemed to come to life around her, while Tish curbed her wildness a bit. When Donald offered to help with dinner preparations, she shooed him away, saying that the kitchen was off-limits the first time—but promising that Elizabeth would make him her scullery slave the next time for sure. Smiling at the image, he went off to change and join the others in the pool.

Clad in dark blue trunks and the towel he'd found waiting slung over his shoulder, he returned to the living room; hearing voices from the kitchen, he stopped just outside the dining room.

"—makes an even dozen students we've had this year."

There was the _thunk_ of a knife cutting through something and stopping at a chopping board. "Looks like they saved the best for last." Madalena had a throaty laugh—sexy, but not vulgar.

He could hear Elizabeth's smile. "No arguments."

"That one you went shopping with—Ducky?"

"Donald," Elizabeth said firmly.

"Now, _that__'__s_ one foxy hunka. Mmh. You know who he looks like? That guy from _Man __From __UNCLE_."

Not the first time he'd heard that comment.

"Hmm." Elizabeth considered it. "Well… kind of. I think Donald's better looking," she said dismissively. "When you're through, go get my folder, please? It's on the piano, I have an idea for revenge I want to show you."

He couldn't help but grin over the compliment—even though 'revenge' made him a little uneasy.

"Sure." Another hard _thunk_, then the sound of rapid chopping. "I think he li-i-i-i-i-ikes you," Madalena sing-songed.

"What?" Elizabeth laughed.

"Donald. I saw how he looked at you."

_Oh, God._

"He likes you. I can tell."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Really?" There was something almost little-girlish in Elizabeth's voice. "You're not just—you think he… really?"

"Uh-huh."

"Wow."

At least she seemed pleased.

"And youuuuu have a crush on him, don't you?"

"Maddie!"

"Come on. Tell Auntie Mad everything."

"Maddie, I just met him! There's—there's nothing to tell!"

"Not yet," she teased.

"I mean… he's nice. He's really… _really_ nice. And sweet. And—well, he's a gentleman. And he's smart—not just an IQ number, I mean—when we were driving back from the store, he had all these little tidbits of information, off the wall, esoteric things he found to say, everything from Egyptology to the Crimean War—"

He had been desperate for anything to fill the silence, scared he'd blurt out something embarrassing,

"I just sat there in awe. I could listen to him for hours. I mean, he's _so_ intelligent—and he has such a beautiful voice," she laughed. "He's an only child, he was born in Glasgow, his parents are divorced, it's so sad—they both live in England, his dad's in London, his mom's in Bath, I think… no, she just took a holiday in Bath—her name is Victoria; _her_ mother lives in Edinburgh, now, so Donald sees her for dinner almost every other week—"

Boy, he'd talked a lot. She'd also listened a lot.

"You like him." There was just a little tease in Madalena's voice now.

Donald waited thorough the long silence. "Yeah. Yeah, Maddie. I like him. A lot. I mean, I know I just met him, but…"

"Well…" There was the sound of something being scraped off the chopping block. "I think you've made a good choice. And so has he."

He didn't know how big his grin was until Eddie stopped him at the edge of the pool and asked him what the heck was so funny. "Nothing. I just… _really_ like California."

Eddie was staring across the large backyard, watching Tish help her brother with the barbecue grill. "Oh, so do I, mate. So do I."

/ / /

Food had never tasted so good. Whether it was appetites borne of swimming and horseplay or the caveman link that said food cooked outside just tasted better than cooked in the kitchen and served on china was up for debate, but Donald was almost embarrassed by the amount of food he consumed. The fact that Eddie ate half again as much and Dennys left them both in the dust was of some consolation.

Elizabeth gave him a triumphant smile over the detritus and debris. "Neighborhood party?"

The salads and chips were a memory, the chocolate cake—the best he'd had in his life—reduced to crumbs. One lone hamburger patty remained—until Madalena tossed it to the patiently waiting Robbie. "I will never doubt you again," Donald promised.

Her smile grew into a grin. "I'll remember that."

He hoped so.

"Anyone want to swim?" Tish suggested half-heartedly.

"God, no," Maddie groaned. "I ate so much, I'll sink like a rock. Let's go inside and play something."

"Poker?" Dennys suggested.

"I still owe you ten bucks from the last game," Maddie countered. "Monopoly?"

"We need to get new money. The wind blew most of it into the pool last time and turned it into papier-mâché." Tish made a face. "Charades?"

"You must be joking." Elizabeth shuddered.

"Name that tune?" Tish suggested.

Elizabeth gave her an almost dirty look. "Backgammon?" she countered.

"Six-handed?" Tish shot back.

"Good point."

"Um… Scrabble?" Maddie said hopefully. "I know I'll lose, but I don't care."

Donald perked up. He loved Scrabble. He could see the gleam in Eddie's eyes. "No bookmaking," he muttered.

"You take all the fun out of things," Eddie mumbled back.

"Count me out," Tish said firmly.

"We can be the cheering squad," he brother suggested. "Or… teams?"

"Boys against girls," Maddie said quickly. "We get Liz."

Elizabeth stared at her lap, a smile playing about her lips. "Never mind," her brother sighed. "I'll stick with the pep squad."

"You, ah, you like Scrabble?" Donald asked casually.

"Well… Dad plays it a lot," Elizabeth said with a sigh. "Which means we all play it a lot."

"Mmh," he said in agreement. "I grew up playing against my mother. I know what you mean." Heh, heh, heh. Victoria Mallard had a vocabulary that had stopped his first year lit professor at Eton dead in his tracks.

"I'm not very good," Eddie said reluctantly. He actually wasn't a bad player—unless Donald was in the game. "But I'll make up a fourth."

Maddie grinned. "Dig it."

They adjourned to the library. Granted, all four walls were peppered with packed bookcases—but Donald would have called it the music room from the baby grand alone, not to mention a stand dulcimer, a Celtic harp, a mandolin and a zither scattered about the room and a guitar with gorgeous inlay work sitting on the piano bench. Those were the instruments he saw—he had a feeling more were hidden. "This is beautiful." He looked closely at the guitar, hesitating to touch it.

Elizabeth gave him a brief smile. "Thanks."

"You play?"

She shrugged. "A little."

A 12-string guitar? He was willing to bet 'a little' meant 'a lot.' But he let it drop. "I've never seen inlay work like that."

Now she beamed at him. "Thanks. It took me almost six months."

"You did that? You _made_ this?"

"God, no. I found the guitar at a swap meet—it was just about trashed, but it still had a good sound. It's a Martin." He had no idea what that meant, but apparently it was something high quality. "Since it had to be totally refinished anyway, I decided to have some fun. Went over to San Pedro, bought a bunch of abalone and mother of pearl shells and some chips of wood at the hobby store, and… _voila_." She picked it up and turned it over for his inspection.

"Where did you learn to do this?" The back of the guitar was a phoenix rising from the flames; the front, a stylized sun and moon, the pick guard melding into the scenery.

"Self-taught," she said matter-of-factly. "I practiced on scrap wood for a month before I worked up the nerve to make my first cut. There are plenty of screw ups on there, they just got covered up." She gently placed it on a stand in the corner. He caught Maddie giving Elizabeth a look that he translated into 'well?' Elizabeth's small hand gesture seemed to be a 'later, later' move. Hmm.

"Scrabble!" Maddie knew where things were in the house; she pulled the box from a shelf and set it on the low coffee table then went in search of a notebook and pencil. She plopped onto the floor; Elizabeth and Donald followed suit, leaving Eddie to perch on the edge of the sofa.

Donald looked at the pile of tiles in the box lid with slight confusion. Were the tiles in the American set larger, or thicker? It seemed like an awfully big pile of letters. "Are there extra tiles?" he asked hesitantly.

Dennys grinned and Tish gave him a winning smile. "Well, a few years ago, Dad decided regular Scrabble was boring. So he got two sets and mixed them up together and put both boards down to play," she said.

"But because it was no longer a perfect square, the center spot was wrecked," Dennys continued.

"We tried it with four sets put together, so we had a square again, but it totaled 900 squares and that was… " Elizabeth puzzled for a moment. "Excessive," she said gently.

"Excessive," Donald repeated faintly. "I can see that."

"Plus, because it was now an even 30 by 30 grid, we _still_ didn't have a center square." She smiled. "So, now we play with two sets of tiles and one board."

Eddie nodded faintly. "That… explains why I can spell 'pizza.' Without using a blank tile." He looked at Donald. "We're getting taken to the cleaners, aren't we?"

"Too early to tell."

"Seven tiles or nine? Nine gives you more to play with, but it's harder to bingo. We have an unofficial goal, to use every tile on the board—two hundred tiles, two twenty-five spots. Our best is one-eighty-two, but we had to use a lot of small words right from the start. I'd rather exercise my linguistic capabilities." Elizabeth gave him a beatific smile.

Two could play that game. "I concur completely. Etymological challenges are much more fun." He smiled at her startled look… that turned into one of pleasure.

Maddie turned to Tish and Dennys. "I am _so_ screwed."

They agreed on seven tiles, and drew for first play; Elizabeth won the draw, followed clockwise by Donald, Maddie, and Edward. No poker face, she; her lip almost curled as the tiles on her tray climbed to the necessary seven. Lip caught between her teeth, she moved tiles this way and that… then a smile slowly spread over her face. "Bingo," she said sweetly.

"Already?" Maddie almost moaned. "Jeez."

Elizabeth set down her tiles. C, R, H, R, P, Y, I…

Pyrrhic.

Donald stared at the word for a long moment. Not for lack of recognition—more in admiration. And a hint of unease.

"Okay, twenty-one, double points, bingo… ninety-two. Not bad." Maddie recorded the score.

Not _bad_? He exchanged looks with Eddie. With a start like this, they were going to have one hell of a game. He had six different letters from her start to add to his own seven. P? No. Y? Wait, wait… He coughed lightly. "Ah—bingo."

Maddie folded her arms. "No way. No freaking way."

He started at the C and built down. "Coronach."

"I'm not challenging, I'm not challenging, I just—what the heck is it?" Elizabeth finally said, after a long, puzzled silence.

Eddie grinned. "It's a dirge. Played on bagpipes."

Maddie snorted. "Jeez, Liz, everyone knows that." Her lopsided smirk showed she was teasing.

"If you're going to pull out words like that, I'm getting the dictionary." Tish came back lugging a slip cased set of OED and the magnifying glass and curled up cross-legged on the sofa next to Eddie. "I'm not going to say anything about spelling, but I'm looking up definitions." She looked from Donald to her sister and back. "You people scare me."

"Okay, with a bingo, that's… eighty-four. Watch your back," she warned Elizabeth. "You only have an eight point lead."

"The afternoon is still young." She smiled, but didn't look up from rearranging her tiles.

Maddie played o-e-z off the y, forming oyez. "Eighteen points. Watch out, guys, I'm gaining on you."

Eddie quickly built on her z; mirza. Before anyone could ask, Tish flipped pages of the dictionary. "A Persian prince. Where do you come up with things like this?"

Eddie cocked his head across the table toward Donald. "Playing against _him_."

"What's _your_ excuse?" she shot to Donald.

He grinned. "Playing against my mother. You'd like my mother." Ha-ha-ha-haaaa… she'd chew her up and spit her out. After making her dress more decorously.

Elizabeth was grinning like a Cheshire cat and almost bouncing up and down on the floor. "Bingo, bingo, bingo," she all but sang. "N-I-H-I-L-I-S-M."

Maddie did fast addition. "You're at one-sixty-eight. Already."

Tish snorted. "Hey, even _I _took Intro to Philosophy. I know that one." She shook her head as Donald took the fourth bingo in six plays. "Dad would kill to see this game—and what the _hell_ is pleonasm?"

"You've got the dictionary," he said.

She flipped pages and ran her finger down the columns, magnifying glass at an angle… and began to chuckle. Then laugh. "Oh. My. God." She held her place in the book, drumming her feet on the floor and laughing uproariously.

"What, what?" Maddie demanded.

Wiping her eyes, Tish managed to gasp out, "The use of more words than are necessary to express an idea. Redundancy." She began to giggle again. "I am _not_ saying a word."

"Wise idea," her sister said. "Points, Mad?"

"Fourteen, plus a bingo… You're still ahead." She came 'this close' to a bingo, playing 'jasmine.' Eddie managed his own 50-point bonus with 'prodigal.'

"Glad I sat out." Dennys moved over to lounge on the sofa next to Eddie's vacant side, where he could lazily stroke Maddie's hair. "Don't get so uptight, baby."

"They're creaming me, Den. I mean, I always lose, but—jeez!"

Elizabeth picked up a meager 9 points for 'quid,' pleased with her Britishism regardless of the points; Donald quickly played 'qiviut.'

"No way. I know I said I wasn't checking spelling, but there's always a 'U' after a 'Q!'"

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "It's right." Maddie nodded in agreement.

"You're shitting me."

Donald choked on his Coke.

"Your dad played it a couple of months ago. I remember it because it's so weird—no U. It's, like, the fur of a musk ox or something. Oh, jeez, triple word score." Maddie looked at Elizabeth. "He's ahead by twenty points."

Tish shook her head. "I'll say it again: Dad would _kill_ to see this game."

"We can take a picture," Dennys suggested.

Tish ran out of the room and returned with a Polaroid camera. "Smile!" she crowed, giving them no time before hitting the button.

"I meant a picture of the board," Dennys said.

"First the players. Board at the end."

Over the next plays they ranged from the prosaic (sung) to the unusual (eponym). Maddie went from jasmine to Tarot to gentles to ghee. "What can I say, I play at the Renaissance Faire a lot." As she drew her replacement tiles, her face grew more and more distraught.

Dennys leaned over to look. "Ugh. Sucks. Sucks scummy pond water."

"This isn't a hand, this is a foot." She watched as the play progressed, and a look of hope crossed her face. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. A 'U,'" she muttered, as Donald managed to squeeze in 'adieu.' "Oh, Donald, I _love_ you!" She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a dramatic smooch on the cheek.

"Hey!" Dennys objected.

"Sweetie, honey, baby, oh, my God, I've got a freaking bingo! With a Q! And the goddamned X!"

Donald had an idea what her word was, but he waited until she had played her tiles and then jumped up to dance around the room. Yep—quixotic.

"My first bingo, my first bingo, my first binnnnngooooo—ever," she sang to a completely unrecognizable tune.

"Nice word to use for a bingo," he complimented her.

"Sophomore lit finally comes in handy," she said, plopping back down on the floor.

They were rapidly running out of room. No more bingos, no more five and six letters cleared from a tray—they were lucky to cram three tiles to make a four letter word. (Clean words, of course.)

Elizabeth never recovered from the lead she lost and ended the game in second place. Maddie and Edward ended with a tie—until they deducted the leftover tiles in their trays.

"Hey, this is the first time I didn't come in last. Oops—sorry," she said, scrunching up her face and looking apologetically at Eddie.

"You're forgiven," he laughed ruefully. "I'm used to losing when Ducky is playing… just not usually this badly."

"Luck of the tiles," Donald said amiably.

"And a memory for words like a freaking elephant," Tish said. There was actual admiration in her look at her sister. "I guess Bizzy isn't the only one like that—I figured it was a genetic fluke from Dad or something, but if there's two of you…" She shrugged. "You two should just play with each other."

Donald concentrated on his soda. Normally he wouldn't leap to a double entendre—but with Tish it was kind of hard not to. He noticed that Elizabeth had ducked under the coffee table and was emerging, red-faced and clutching a pencil. Nice dodge.

"Well, I think instead of taking a picture, we should leave the board up for Doc. Let him see what he missed," Maddie said firmly.

"You don't want a rematch?" Donald asked innocently.

"Hell, no, I'm taking my third place and resting on my laurels."

Dennys shook his head. "Take a picture, take the board down," he said resignedly.

His sisters looked at each other. "Robbie," they said in unison.

"His training leaves a lot to be desired," Elizabeth added.

"Good point," Madalena agreed with a reluctant sigh, moving out of the way so Tish could capture the game on several Polaroid shots.

"Well, if poker is out, how about gin rummy?" Dennys suggested.

"Deal me out the first hand," his girlfriend ordered. "I need Lizzie in the kitchen for a minute."

Donald had never played the game, but it was fairly easy. Tish was definitely the master, winning three hands in rapid succession before her sister and Maddie returned. Elizabeth looked at the scores and winced. "Here…" She leaned over Donald's shoulder and rearranged his cards. "This way, if you get another…" she pointed to the two queens, her voice barely audible in his ear. "Or, you can fill in here…" pointing to the jack and ten of spades that followed the last queen. "Wiggle room."

"Thank you," he said quietly, smiling up at her.

"Hey, hey, familial loyalty," her sister protested.

"Just helping the new kids," Lizzie said sweetly, turning to Eddie and giving him some low-voiced advice as well.

"Thanks heaps," Tish grumbled as she won—barely—her fourth hand. Donald turned the tables on her, then Eddie followed suit. "You guys joining?" Tish asked. "We could do double deck to play six."

"Pass," Maddie said, sitting next to Dennys and slipping under his arm. "I'm fine here." Dennys grinned in agreement.

"No," Elizabeth said firmly in agreement. "Playing with two sets of Scrabble tiles at the same time is crazy enough. I'm fine just watching."

She was fine, but it was ruining his concentration having her sit almost hip to hip. She wasn't kibitzing—not really—but every so often he'd pick a card, check his hand, and glance her way… only to meet her slightly amused/possibly flirtatious (please!) gaze. At least three times he was so distracted he discarded the wrong card, to her appalled look. He finished dead last, his points barely in double digits. Even Eddie far outpaced him. When they decided to head back to the pool, he was relieved.

The rest of the group cavorted in the water, but Donald was still a little sleepy from both the heavy meal little over an hour before and the warm, comforting sun. He wasn't accustomed to such blazing light, but he enjoyed it—he and Eddie had been shocked the night before, when Sassy gave him driving lessons and Eddie came along for moral support; the sun seemed to hang in the sky until midnight. Intellectually he knew that the sun was up for a longer time in the summer—but having grown up in perpetual haze and overcast, it was like running into a unicorn on the main street. You can hear about something and wonder if it's nothing but myth. He stretched out on one of the chaise lounges, content to watch new friends and old splash around… and like an old grandfather, promptly dozed off.

_Ealasaid stood bareback on a cantering unicorn, arms spread wide, miles of chiffon swirling behind her as the animal pranced along the shoreline. She was singing, something beautiful and airy that ebbed and flowed with the tide. The wind caught her up; she sailed on the breeze, wisps of color all around her as she ran through the air coming closer and closer to the ground. Her feet touched the packed wet sand and she continued to run, hair streaming behind her; the layers of mist-thin fabric plastered to her body and he could tell she was sweetly naked beneath. He couldn't see himself, but he knew he was there, running through the air, trying to catch her. "Wait for me!" he called. "Ealasaid, wait for me!" But the ocean swallowed his words._

_Far ahead of them, the sand swirled up into a funnel and turned into a lone figure: a woman, not quite an old crone but damned close. Her hair was twisted up, mingling with an elaborate headpiece—either her hair was silver-blonde and the crown black or vice versa; they seemed one and the same. She, too, wore cascades of fabric, heavy and shimmering black and purple that met the shadowed sand and disappeared, one into the other. She held out a hand. On it rested a tiny, perfect apple. "My gift to you, young one."_

"_Oh!" Ealasaid cried. She took the apple almost reverently. "Jo's! My favorite!" She took a bite… gasped and fell to the sand, where she lay, unmoving. The crone screamed with laughter, a sound that turned into claps of thunder. Lightning rent the sky as the sunlight disappeared and icy rain poured as though from overturned rain barrels. Ealasaid disappeared in the downpour, melting into the sand and fading away like a sidewalk pastel._

Donald awoke with a start. _What __the __bloody __hell__…__?_

Only one thing pushed through the mental fog: if he was ever again asked to mind the children in the house next door to his mother's… _no __more __Disney __flicks_.

"Hey, sleepy." Elizabeth stood before him, wet hair stringing down her back and dripping on the patio. In his opinion she looked absolutely gorgeous. "I have a gift for you."

_Holy __Christ, __no __apples, __please!_ He accepted the blue jar. "Thank you?"

She picked up his hand. "Follow me." He tried not to stare at her shifting hips, barely covered in a white bikini that glowed against her light tan. _I __will __follow __you __to __the __ends __of __the __earth._ She led him into a small bathroom that was just outside the library. "I am so sorry." She pulled him in to face the mirror.

Face, chest, arms… all were apple red. "Oh, my God."

She opened the jar. "I totally forgot that you and Eddie wouldn't have a tan base, that you needed to be basted in suntan lotion before setting out to broil. Noxema will help." The cream had a strong but not unpleasant scent. "Use it wherever you're burned. It'll take the sting out, help it heal. I am so, _so_ sorry."

"It's not your fault." He had vague memories of Sassy warning them to buy some suntan lotion. He'd listen harder the next time she talked. "We'll remember for next time."

"Eddie isn't quite so bad. And your legs were in the shade… man, there's nothing worse than a sunburn on the soles of your feet." She bit her lip. "Would you like me to do your back? I guess you didn't turn over much, it's not that bad."

"Ah—thank you. Yes." He turned around and tried not to gasp as the cooling ointment touched his skin. Funny, it hadn't felt hot until there was something in comparison. It was starting to smart, but still he tried to contain his enjoyment as she spread the cream over his skin; she had a gentle touch and it was worth the burn to have such intimate attention from her. _Jesus, __Mallard, __you__'__ve __known __the __girl __five __hours. __You__'__re __one __hell __of __a __horny __bastard_. He bit back a smile. _That __is __not __what __the __telly __would __call__ '__breaking __news.__' _He turned at her silent touch and was elated when she continued her ministrations. He couldn't bite back a gasp. "That's cold."

"No, you're just hot." She realized her inadvertent double entendre and, to his amusement, turned pink. "I mean… your skin temp is higher where the burn is worse." She stared at his chest as she continued to lightly rub the cream into his chest and arms, not meeting his gaze.

"Mmmh. Yes, amazingly, I remember reading about this phenomenon in class some years ago," he joked.

"Santayana," she said shortly. She smiled faintly.

"Those who do not remember the past—"

"Are condemned to repeat it," she finished. She replaced the lid on the jar and handed it over ceremoniously. "You can't overuse it. Keep an eye on the blistering if you have any. Aloe vera is good, so is cocoa butter. And—you might want to sleep on top of the bedclothes. At least, when I get burned, I do. Fabric touching the burn is just…" She shuddered. "Cold water showers—"

_I was already thinking of that. For my own reasons._

"Just… muddle through as best you can. You should be a lot better by Monday, so at least you won't spend your first clinic day screaming, 'Don't touch me!' to everyone."

_No, __no, __right __now __I__'__m __thinking,__ '__touch __me, __touch __me!__' __Great, __Donald. __Stop __thinking __like __that. __Keep __it __up __and __you__'__ll __be __screwing __the __boss__'__s __daughter __in __the __loo!_ "Thank you," he finally got out. "So—you get burned, too?" he asked conversationally as they walked through what Tish had called the entertainment room.

"Couple of times a year, usually at the beginning of summer. Last year—boy, howdy, that was a bad one. We went down to the beach for a party, I had on a little halter top and short-shorts—"

_Would have loved to see that._

"—and it was just a little overcast so I didn't notice the sun… By the time we got home, I was such a dark red I was almost purple. I was already blistering. It was crispy critter time." She turned around and moved her hair out of the way. "See?" She pointed over her shoulder. "Blister tore so badly it scarred." Under the tan there was a lighter patch the size of his palm. "Up 'til then, Daddy was more pissed because I should have known better. It's not like we just moved to California, after all. But that was when he dragged me to the dermatologist at the ER and we got a big tube of topical antibiotic. I couldn't sleep for a week, it hurt everywhere no matter how I sat or lay down or moved."

"Oh, Ealasaid, that's awful."

She stopped in her story, a smile playing about her lips.

"What?" he finally asked.

"I just…" She shrugged lightly. "I like that name. Especially how you say it."

"Well, then… I guess I'll have to say it a lot."

Her smile grew. "I guess you will."

/ / /

Donald took his fourth cold shower in as many hours and applied another layer of the Noxema, moving carefully, cautiously. Sleepless night, shirt within inches of skin causing agony, folding skin to sit or walk taking that pain to a whole new level—how did people in California stand it every year? Then he remembered the gentle hands sliding over his back.

Yeah—it was worth it.

* * *

><p>2<p> 


	3. Syncopation

**Chapter Three: Syncopation**

_**Syncopation:** A disturbance  
>or interruption of the<br>regular flow of rhythm._

* * *

><p><strong>May 3, 1969<strong>

"Daddy, this is Donald." There was just enough of a pause that Dr. Stewart looked sharply at his daughter. "Donald Mallard. Sorry." She coughed softly. "Lost my voice for just a second." As the two shook hands, she finished, "Edward Langley." Another handshake. "If you will excuse me, I have quite a bit of work to do if we're going to eat dinner at anything approaching a reasonable hour…"

"Lamb chops?" he father asked with hope in his voice.

"Tomorrow night, Daddy. _Stasera abbiamo di viaggio per l'Italia—_tonight we travel to Italy!" Donald grinned; her Italian was more than passing fair. "Salad and minestrone soup to start. Then lasagna—"

"Lasagna," her father echoed happily. "She makes the best lasagna you will ever eat," he mock-confided to the boys.

"_Broccoli alla Romana… Carciofi al Tegame_…" She waggled a hand. "Corn on the cob because Denny stopped at the Farmer's Market so I'd better use it today—and, as we have quite the crowd tonight, two desserts: _Cassata alla Siciliana_… annnnnd… Grandma's Thing."

Donald looked up, startled. "Grandma's Thing?"

Dr. Stewart laughed. "It was a recipe she found in my mother's file. It simply said 'Dessert.' On the back, it was credited to Roxana de la Torrina, a woman my mother knew during the war. Fortunately, the instructions were in English."

"_Un_fortunately," Elizabeth said, "they were in 'grandma-speak.'" She grinned at Donald. "You know—a pinch of this, a dash of that, a knob of butter, two cents' worth flour... Two cents' worth? Now, that one threw us all. But it sounded so good, I kept making it over and over until Daddy said it tasted like what he remembered. Of course, by then the family was sick to death of the thing."

"I wasn't," her father said staunchly.

"Mm-hmm," she teased, patting his very slight potbelly in passing. "I can tell."

"Off with you!" He shooed her toward her domain and ushered the two students into his private study.

It was a quiet room—once the doors shut behind them, all noise from the rest of the house disappeared—and it was attractive and personable; Donald decided he'd like a room very much like this in his own home. Very soft music played from a Hi-Fi set in the corner—Holst's _The_ _Planets_: _Mars_ he thought. It smelled of coffee, old books and lemon wax, not an unpleasant combination. Floor to ceiling drapes of a soft green covered an expanse of sliding glass doors that led to a large area of flower-lined lawn. The heavy bookcases—crammed higgledy-piggledy with books—were a medium shade of wood, possibly oak, and made a nice counterpoint to the massive, dark desk of carved… mahogany?

"Good eye," Dr. Stewart noted when Eddie ventured forth a guess.

"My grandfather is an antiques dealer," Eddie admitted. Dealer, hell; he was _the_ dealer for anyone with taste and a sense of fair value and had rebuilt the family fortune pissed away by his drunken father who committed suicide at 30 from shame. Grandfather Langley had instilled a sense of fiduciary responsibility in his son and grandchildren—Eddie might be a scapegrace with regard to romantic foibles, but he was a good student, would prove to be a good doctor, and wouldn't do anything to bring _real_ shame down on his family. Donald reconsidered. Well…probably not.

"A gift from my wife when we moved up here." From his voice it was hard to tell if Dr. Stewart was pleased with the gift or not, but he certainly used it. The desk was nearly buried in papers, files and books. Dr. Stewart sat in a large slat-back wooden swivel chair in heavily varnished blond wood that looked completely out of place with the rest of the room; it looked like a schoolteacher's chair—when questioned, he grinned and admitted that it was. "My father taught high school chemistry until the year he died. This was his chair. It drives my wife crazy because it doesn't match _anything_… but you'd have to kill me to get this out of my hands. Now—" He indicated two chairs in front of his desk and rubbed his hands together. "I've gone over your files—you're both excellent students, excellent." He smiled. "I couldn't expect less from my grandfather's alma mater."

Donald exchanged a glance with Eddie; they were already a point ahead just from their choice of medical school.

"Hmmm… yes…" Dr. Stewart was running a finger down a list. "Mr. Mallard." Donald looked up. "We have a new project started just this past year. The clinic is still on what I'd call a shakedown cruise. A great deal of outpatient work as opposed to inpatient and hospital stays. It's the Keller Memorial Geriatric Clinic."

Donald tried to not let his surprise show. "Yes, sir." He certainly got along well enough with older people, but Eddie was the pet of all the grandparents—and the elderly patients they dealt with. He didn't know if the patients brought out the best in Eddie or vice versa, but they constantly asked for 'sweet Mr. Langley.'

"You will be working with Dr. Ramona Morton primarily, but she may have you moving about the clinic as needed. They work with the physical problems associated with aging, of course—all the infirmities our great-grandparents never faced because we've gone beyond the manufacturer's original warranty." Interesting way of looking at it. "But they're working on a number of cognitive therapies, things to aid mental acuity so that as we increase our lifespan we aren't left with healthy shells and empty craniums." He sobered for a moment. "I must confess, gentlemen… for me, senility holds a greater fear than death."

Donald could well understand. Yes, he worked well with elderly patients—it was part of his job—but there was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that said, _Watch __out! __This __could __happen __to __you!_ His grandparents on both sides of the family had lived to ripe old ages and been healthy as horses. Grandmother Mallard and Grandfather Kittridge had both passed away in the past half-dozen years, his grandfather having played a full 18 holes of golf just hours before. Both had been intelligent, active and 'all there' as his mother put it. Grandmother Kittridge continued to live alone in Eskbank in Dalkeith, refusing to come live with her daughter in England. Except for a daily to come help with the heavy work, she did her own cooking and cleaning, walked almost two miles daily for evensong and still ran the church's fête and jumble sales each year. (She also still baked the best blueberry scones he'd ever eaten.)

Grandfather Mallard, unfortunately, was not faring so well. Oh, his body was still in prime shape… (Donald's father had been mortified to walk in on Grandfather and the manageress of the local record shop—Grandfather hadn't called him for two days, and he was worried the old man had injured himself. As he had discovered, Grandfather was _fine_, just _fine_. (He had never mentioned the story to Donald; it was Grandfather, himself, who had crowed about it at the next Christmas dinner.)) Unfortunately, his mind was starting to go. He frequently went out for a walk and ended up halfway to another town, no idea where he was or where he was going—or why. Tales of travel from all four grandparents and a Eurail pass at 17 had given Donald a lifetime of memories of his own; now his grandfather retreated to a dig in Giza or filming a movie in Buckinghamshire at the drop of a hat and there was no way of telling if it was memory or fantasy.

"I fully anticipate people being able to work into their eighties, nineties, even beyond—within your lifetime." Dr. Stewart considered his comment for a moment. "Possibly even mine." He took a moment to polish his glasses, squinting at them. "I wouldn't mind a cure for presbyopia, myopia and the common cold while we're at it." He put his glasses back on, giving him a faintly Mr. Magoo-ish look. He handed Donald a manila envelope. "All the pertinent details are in there. 7 a.m. sharp Monday morning. You might want to look up the clinic tomorrow—ironic that they're dealing with patients who have memory problems, yet they built the damn clinic where you need a map, two sherpas and a day's rations to find it." He turned to Eddie. "Now. Mr. Langley…"

Donald knew Eddie's grandfather had caused an apprehension of authority figures but he was doing a spectacular job of hiding it. "Yes, sir?"

Dr. Stewart sighed. "As medicine moves forward," he said slowly, "we find ourselves able to diagnose illness and disease whereas a hundred years ago—fifty years ago—the cause of death would be a mystery. No more so than with cancer."

Eddie paled slightly but held his ground. Donald was proud of this occasional thorn in his side; he knew that Eddie had a morbid fear of cancer above all other diseases, and had no idea why… he just knew that when studies turned to oncology, Eddie faltered and it took the collective efforts of a dozen friends to scrape him by with a passing mark.

"As diagnosis becomes more accurate, we discover new types of cancer. It's like an ugly, deadly butterfly—every time you turn around, there's a new name. And the largest upswing over the years…" He looked up from the sheet he was studying. "Pediatric oncology."

_Mother __of __God._ He was hitting Eddie with a double dose: his worst fear and his worst nemesis. Unlike Donald, who enjoyed children, got along with children, and was regularly sought out in clinic to help soothe and coax little ones, happy-go-lucky Eddie regarded children as a punishment for those too stupid to practice birth control. He opened his mouth to suggest that Dr. Stewart swap out their duties—then closed it. What a cunning fox. He had their files before him—this wasn't just a clinic assignment… it was psychotherapy.

"Yes, sir." Eddie's words were barely audible. But he plainly knew it wasn't just his reputation on the line—it was the reputation of the clinic program, of Edinburgh Medical School in total. "Yes, sir," he said, a little more firmly. _Good __lad!_ Donald wanted to cheer.

Dr. Stewart handed Eddie his own envelope. "7 a.m. Dr. Lewis. He has his students work in pairs, finds it lessens the trauma on both sides of the equation."

The door behind them opened. Donald turned, hoping it was Elizabeth, but was disappointed. The woman who stepped in bore a resemblance to Elizabeth and Patricia—tall, darkly tanned and leggy like Patricia, ash blonde hair an even paler shade than Elizabeth's and attractive like both daughters, but with stiffness that even Patricia would be hard pressed to imitate. He realized that it was due in part to an over application of makeup—and too much time in the sun. He'd seen that tight skin on crofters who had spent years tilling the soil: by forty, their skin was taut, by fifty it was leather and by sixty they looked like raisins in overalls. "Andy!" She stopped short.

"Come in, Julia," he said smoothly. "We were just finishing. Gentlemen, my wife, Julia Stewart. Julia, this is Donald Mallard—"

"Ma'am."

"And Edward Langley."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"They're our last boys from Edinburgh." He actually sounded sad.

She looked at them, confused. "They're early."

Now, _that_ was embarrassing. "No, dear, it's nearly three."

"What? It can't be." She squinted at the mantle clock. Probably one of those who refused to wear glasses, thinking they made her look older—not realizing that her squint was far more unattractive. "Huh. It is." Without another word, she turned and walked out. Very confusing.

Donald caught a whiff on the breeze from the door shutting. No—very _drunk_. He knew the smell of Scotch whiskey—his grandmother had a small shot every night, 'for pleasant dreams' she said. He had seen plenty of men (and women) from the colleges and universities get completely potted; he didn't understand the appeal of going from an enjoyable drink or two to spending a night in the loo throwing up your shoes. A waste of time, money, liquor and stomach lining.

Dr. Stewart ignored the interruption. "We'll meet here each Saturday for assessment. It also gives you a—family away from home," he said with just the slightest hesitation.

"Thank you, sir. We appreciate it," Donald said, Eddie nodding in agreement.

"I apologize for the mix-up yesterday—and in advance of any further trips. I had planned on little travel this year, since I volunteered to be clinic coordinator, but, unfortunately, I am covering for a colleague who is recuperating from a rather devastating car accident. He'll live," he said quickly. "But he's undergone numerous surgeries and is still making his way through rehabilitation therapy. We've divided his work amongst five of us, so you can imagine how busy he was."

"We understand, sir." Again, Donald spoke and Eddie nodded. Donald had a feeling he was still processing the whole _pediatric __oncology __clinic_ idea.

"Well, we have some time before dinner…" He gave Donald a wicked grin. "Care for a game of Scrabble?"

Donald thought of Madalena's comment the day before: _I __am __**so **__screwed._

/ / /

"We're going to have to keep you around, Mr. Mallard." Dr. Stewart clapped a hand on Donald's shoulder. Donald managed to not wince; the sunburn had improved overnight, but still hurt. "Drink?"

Probably polite to say yes. "A very light one, sir. I'm still not entirely comfortable driving on the roads here."

"Screwdriver," the doctor prescribed. "Orange juice will be good." He quickly tossed juice and vodka over ice and handed it over.

It was so light Donald could barely taste the alcohol—and the juice was a California specialty, freshly squeezed. He was falling in love with the food.

"Good game?"

He was falling in love with something else, too. He smiled at the vision that emerged from the kitchen: the blue of her cover-up almost matched her eyes, and the claim to 'cover-up' was misleading—he could easily see the shadow of her white bikini underneath. Somehow, that made it even sexier. "Very."

"Who won?"

"Your father."

Out of sight of her parent, Elizabeth grinned broadly and winked. 'Smooth move,' she mouthed.

He hadn't lost on purpose. He had sweated blood through the entire game—not only was Dr. Stewart a great player (now he knew firsthand and for certain where Elizabeth had learned the game), but Donald found himself frequently distracted by little hints of Elizabeth: the faint scent of her perfume in the library, the sight of her walking on the patio… He had found himself unable to spell the simplest words, and Dr. Stewart had pounced on the advantage. Elizabeth had wandered through at one point, looking at the board, and her father had suggested she join the game. She had politely declined, citing work still to be done in the kitchen, and Donald was extremely grateful—he would have been a wreck with her at close quarters and her father only a foot away. Yesterday had been something different, everyone roughly the same age. "It was a tough game," he admitted.

"You can always ask for a rematch," Dr. Stewart suggested.

"Perhaps after dinner," Donald said with a laugh. "Speaking of which—is there anything I can do to help?" _Please?_

Elizabeth smiled prettily. "Well, Maddie said the next time you'd be put to work—"

"My pleasure." _You __have __no __idea._

She gave him a crook of a finger. "Follow me."

As with the day before, he tried not to stare at the lovely shift of her hips and failed miserably. _Follow __you? __Gladly. __God, __what __a __glorious __sight._

"Okay, I'm good on the lasagna… desserts are mostly ready, I need to make the whipped cream right before we serve and still have to frost the cake... I have water simmering for the corn so we don't have to wait for it to boil… would you chop up the broccoli for me?"

"Certainly." He watched her demonstrate the size she wanted—tiny twigs—and set to carefully slicing.

She watched his cautious moves. "Do you cook much?"

He grinned. "It shows that badly?"

"Well… everyone has to learn sometime."

"Or live on tinned food." He continued to cut two large heads of broccoli into bits while unabashedly watching her. She had a large cone of parchment paper with a toothed metal tip and was decorating what looked like a torte. "What's that?"

"_Cassata alla Siciliana_. I love it, but it's a pain to make. It's layers of pound cake with this great filling in between—but you have to let it sit in the fridge for 24 hours to ripen." She gave him an amused look. "We're short a couple of hours, but it'll still taste fine."

Good God, she had started this dinner the night before? "You cook a lot."

She shrugged. "I like to cook. And baking relaxes me."

He remembered the chocolate fudge cake from the day before. "May you forever stay relaxed."

She giggled. "Um, okay." The giggles turned into full-fledged laughter.

He couldn't help but join in. "I was just complimenting your cooking." Well—the idea of cuddling in a corner of that silly conversation pit, a relaxed Elizabeth on his lap, was appealing, too.

"Well, thank you, sir." The swinging door pushed in and Mrs. Stewart appeared. "Hi, Mom."

She looked around, slightly befuddled. "What are you making?"

"Dinner. Dessert."

Donald bit back a smile. Perfectly innocent and accurate answer. Just a hint pert. He was all for respecting ones elders, but had the distinct impression that Mrs. Stewart didn't get much respect… and possibly didn't deserve it.

She made a small face at the pots and platters and dishes in use. "I don't know why you have to make such a fuss," she muttered. Yep, a comment like that didn't deserve respect.

"Because I like to cook, Mom. You don't." Elizabeth shrugged politely. "_I_ don't understand why you make such a fuss over playing tennis and golf."

He mother almost pouted. "Well, sweetie, if you'd just _try_—"

"Well, the same can be said for cooking." She brought a bag of artichokes out from the refrigerator. "As soon as you're done with the broccoli, I'm going to teach you the proper care and whacking of artichokes."

He grinned. "Can't wait."

Mrs. Stewart looked at him in near horror, suddenly realizing he was even there. "Donald is proving an apt pupil," Elizabeth said lightly.

"Oh," was all her mother said. She took a long drink from the glass in her hand. "Oh, uh, Magalen said if you need help to come get her." She turned on her heel and left the room, still looking puzzled.

Elizabeth sighed as she disappeared. "I haven't decided if she can't say Maddie's name correctly—or won't." She turned back to his work. "Excellent." She scraped the broccoli into a bowl, filled it with ice water and set it aside. "Now: chokes."

He grinned. "Lead on, Macduff."

/ / /

With still an hour to go before dinner, Donald helped Elizabeth tidy the kitchen a bit then they headed out to the patio to relax.

Edward was sitting at an umbrella-shaded table, staring off into the distance. Donald chewed his lip; apparently he was still thrown off course by his assignment. He'd made a note to set aside the time tomorrow to have a long talk with Eddie about the assignment. He'd pulled through before—he could do it again.

Madalena was in the pool, arms folded on the cement edge, looking up at Dennys. Behind her, Tish sprang in and out of the water like a dolphin to the amusement of a young man with a mop of black curls and a dark copper tan. "Another brother?"

Elizabeth followed his gaze. "No. That's Gene Addams. Two d's, like the cartoonist. He's a special effects artist—you know, electronic puppets, animation, matte paintings, stuff like that. He's—" There was an uncomfortable look on Elizabeth's face. "He's Tish's fiancé. They're—getting married this summer."

Donald was shocked. No—beyond shocked. Patricia was _engaged_—and she acted the way she had the day before?

Elizabeth saw his gaze move from Patricia to Eddie then back to her. He tried to school his features into something that passed for polite. He wasn't very successful. "Tish… flirts," Elizabeth said awkwardly. "Gene knows she's not cheating on him…" She lightly tugged Donald's hand and motioned toward the far end of the yard.

"I don't understand—"

"If you knew my sister…" She shook her head. Her embarrassed look was replaced by one of sympathy. "Tish—well… you've met my mom." Now she looked more than embarrassed—she looked mortified. "Mom isn't the most… supportive… person around." From her words in the kitchen, that sounded like an understatement. "Tish used to be Mom's favorite. She could do no wrong… until she started to grow up. Stretch her wings." She stared at the grass. "Escape her cage…" she murmured. "But when you're used to adoration day in and day out, and you don't realize it's conditional on you being a perfect daughter… well…" she trailed off.

"You look for love where you can find it."

"Sort of. She found it in Gene, that's for sure. It's more looking for constant approval. She still needs to feel that every man she meets wants her. Even Eddie." Her eyes flicked up and back down. "Even you." She coughed softly. "I don't think she even realizes she does it—and it's not like it was before. I think the closer she gets to being married, the safer she feels. I was a little surprised how she acted yesterday, but…" She looked up at him with pained eyes. "Please, don't hate her. I know she didn't mean to hurt Eddie if she did. Please. I'm sorry."

"Do you always apologize for other people?" His tone held no rancor.

She thought for a long moment. "Around here… yeah. Sometimes." She sighed. "I know, I shouldn't." He gave her an encouraging look. "I'll try to break the habit."

"And I… will overlook yesterday afternoon. I'll talk to Eddie later on." Maybe it wasn't his assignment that still had him shell shocked.

She gave him a sweet smile and he all but melted. "Thank you." She lightly squeezed his hand. "Oh… are you still interested in going to the Hollywood Bowl? The Moodies?" Nice change of subject.

"Oh, yes. Very much so." Much more polite answer than the war whoop he wanted to let out.

"Good. I'm pretty sure I have tickets—pretty good ones, too. I'm trying to figure out some details about transportation. I can give you a call Monday, if that would be good? I know the dorm number."

He grinned. "That would be great." A sudden scream rent the air and he jumped a full foot in the air. "What in the name of—"

"Peacocks!" she laughed, patting his arm comfortingly. "They run wild—"

Another unearthly scream. If he had to live with this, he'd go mad.

And another scream filled the air. But this one was undeniably human. "_NO!_"

Donald whirled around. Tish and Gene were scrambling to pull themselves out from the deep end; Eddie had leaped from his chair and was looking around in panic. Madalena was already out of the pool and walking slowly toward Dennys, who backed away from her furtively.

"No!" he screamed again. "Get down! Get down, now!"

Elizabeth was trying to hurry back without looking like she was running. Another bird screeched, and Denny joined in.

"Save him!" His voice was hoarse. "God, save him!"

Donald slipped through the library door and, out of sight of Dennys, doubled back at a dead run. He almost collided with Dr. Stewart coming out of his study.

"Dennys?"

"Yes!"

"Damn."

Dr. Stewart ducked back into his office while Donald continued to the side doors. Elizabeth and Maddie were near Dennys but had stopped approaching. "Denny, it's okay. You're here. You're home," Madalena was saying soothingly. "It's not Viet Nam. Andre isn't here. It's okay. You're safe."

Jesus. Flashbacks.

Donald slipped outside slowly, carefully. He caught sight of Elizabeth's eye and nodded toward Dennys and gave her a questioning look. She nodded, once. "Hey, Dennys. It's Don. Donald Mallard. Let me give you a hand, mate." He approached him cautiously. Dennys looked at him in confusion. "Hullo, Den," he said gently, when he got closer. "Why don't we go inside? Your sister has a great dinner made. It's almost time to eat. Remember, you brought home corn?"

Dennys frowned in concentration. "Corn," he repeated.

"That's right—"

Several peacock screeches carried through the hills, one after another. With a matching scream, Dennys fell to his knees, huddled in a ball.

_Goddamned __birds!_ Donald knelt next to him while Elizabeth and Madalena quickly came close. "Dennys, it's okay," he said soothingly. "It's just birds. It's not your mates. Nobody is being hurt. I promise. Nobody is being hurt, and _you_ won't be hurt. It's just peacocks."

Dennys stared at him. "Colonel Gateman?"

He shot a glance toward the girls; two negative shakes. "No, Dennys." He used the tone he took with children in clinic—soothing, but not syrupy. "Donald Mallard. I'm here for two months. In California. You're home. In California. Not Viet Nam."

"Not…?" Dennys shook his head. "Not Colonel Gateman?"

"No, Dennys." He grasped the young man's arms with a gentle firmness. "Donald Mallard. From Edinburgh." A long, drawn-out cry warbled through the air. Dennys stiffened, but Donald didn't let go of his arms. "Just a peacock," he said gently. "Just a peacock."

"Just—" Dennys swallowed. "Just a peacock. Just… a peacock."

"That's right, Den," Maddie said, kneeling next to him.

With a shuddering sigh he leaned over and dropped his head to her shoulder. "I hate those fucking birds," he said.

She wrapped her arms around him tightly. "Me, too, baby. Me, too." She held him there for several minutes, then softly said, "Let's go inside for a bit."

Donald and Elizabeth helped the two to rise. Madalena walked with Dennys, heedless of the water dripping from her body.

Dr. Stewart stood just outside the patio door, hypodermic kit in his hands. "Thank you," he said, voice low. "Dennys… he came home from the service three years ago. The war came home with him."

"I'm so very sorry, sir."

Mrs. Stewart made a noise of derision. "It's a bid for sympathy, Andy, if you—"

Dr. Stewart cut her off by grabbing her drink and slamming it onto the table. Amazingly, the glass didn't shatter. Holding her elbow tightly, he propelled her into the house and out of earshot.

Wow. No wonder Dr. Stewart had hesitated when saying they would be a surrogate family for them. He looked down as his hand was taken into a light grasp and smiled. At least there was Elizabeth.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He smiled down at her. He hadn't had much exposure to shell shock and flashbacks—too bad he didn't have Evan Collins' number at Walter Reed. "Glad I could help. Colonel Gateman—"

"Was his CO."

"He died?"

Elizabeth looked surprised. "No. Well—not when Den was there, and not the last I knew of, anyway. He and Den became good friends—Den used to do spoof songs, you know, like in MAD Magazine? A lot of them were—well, dirty—" He laughed at her look of consternation. "Well, they were! But the guys in the unit loved it. Colonel Gateman said he was a one-man talent show." A peacock cry punctuated her sentence, sounding eerily human. She shuddered slightly. "Andre—I still don't know what happened to Andre, the only time Den talks about him is—well, times like this." She shook her head. "I'm not sure of the story—I think someone had an estate back in the twenties, I think it was, had dozens of peacocks on the property. Either they escaped or were left behind when the owners moved away, but now they run wild in the hills." She managed a smile. "The cops get a lot of calls about people being murdered at two in the morning. They usually tune up in the nighttime."

"My God, how does Dennys get any sleep?"

"Well, the house is actually really quiet. Once you're asleep, you don't hear a thing from the outside world. Dennys—well, you saw him yesterday, he was having a bad day."

He hedged. "I have nothing to compare to—"

"Sorry. You're right. He missed work, he had a sick headache, the kind where you try to throw up your socks and the light from your alarm clock is blinding. He takes medication when it happens, it knocks him out, but then he's loopy when he wakes up."

Donald remembered the lost look on Dennys' face the day before. Between the shadow of flashbacks to war and the headaches, no wonder he looked lost. He was.

"But when he gets one of those headaches, he's more susceptible to flashbacks. And those damned birds are the perfect way to set it off."

"Not to be rude, but—why live here, then?"

She gave him a sarcastic smile. "My mother begged for years to move up here. We lived in Hermosa Beach forever, and she complained that it was 'an artist's colony'—which is what it started out as, true. But PV is like the Beverly Hills of the South Bay—it's where '_the_ people live, my dear.'" She let out a disgusted noise. "And you've seen her. She thinks Dennys is playing this up for sympathy. Daddy says it's because she can't face the horror of what they all went through over there… what they're still going through over there, what they're still going through over _here_." She lifted a shoulder. "I dunno… I think maybe having a damaged son doesn't fit in her perfect world."

Donald remembered her description of Tish from moments before: _when __you__'__re __used __to __adoration __day __in __and __day __out, __and __you __don__'__t __realize __it__'__s __conditional __on __you __being __a __perfect __daughter__…_ No longer perfect son, no longer perfect daughter… what expectation did Julia Stewart place on her youngest child?

Elizabeth seemed to be reading his mind. "Hey, it's like they say—you pick your friends, you're stuck with your family." She smiled gamely up at him.

_Until __you__'__re __old __enough __to __run __away __from __home __for __good._ "Am I a friend?"

"I'd like to think so."

"Good. I want to be." _And __much __more._

/ / /

Donald stayed in the kitchen for the next hour being Elizabeth's more than willing scullery maid; Madalena slipped in to lend another set of hands and to let them know Dennys was resting but would be down for dinner. He was more than a little startled when Madalena wrapped her arms around him and gave him a long, hard hug. "Thank you. From Dennys. And from me." She sighed. "He's really sorry about what happened—"

"Madalena—" Donald stepped back and took her hands, looking seriously into her eyes. "No. Dennys should not apologize for what happened today. Or any time. He has done _nothing_ wrong. And anyone who thinks he _should_ apologize is wrong—dead wrong." Okay, that probably described Mrs. Stewart, but he didn't really give a damn at the moment. And he was pretty sure both young women agreed with him.

Madalena certainly did. "Thank you. Again," she said, clearly meaning his comments. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "You're a peach. You can whup my ass at Scrabble any time." She grabbed a stack of plates from the counter and backed through the swinging door into the dining room.

Elizabeth gave him a funny smile. "Agreed. On both counts." She gave him a kiss on the other cheek and turned back to the stove. It was a softer touch than Maddie's quick peck; no dramatic protestation of undying love… but a bloke could hope.

* * *

><p>3<p> 


	4. Glissando

**Chapter Four: Glissando**

_**Glissando:** Sliding between  
>two notes.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>September 12, 2009<strong>

Ziva was in the surgical waiting area when he arrived, looking like she was pacing while sitting down. Typical Ziva. "They will not tell me anything because I am not family," she groused. "They only gave me her things because she insisted." She looked around uneasily. "I _hate_ hospitals."

Ducky draped an arm about her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Thank you for bringing her here." The glance she shot him made him remember what Tori had said—'she's not in any pain and talking a blue streak.' What all had she said? "Elizabeth… is an old friend."

She didn't look away, but there was a minute flash of something indefinable in her eyes. It was gone as soon as he saw it. He guessed that Elizabeth had been touching on their past with Ziva as he had been with Tori. "I would feel more comfortable if you have her things." He accepted the wallet and sealed envelope. "That is most of her jewelry. A watch, earrings, necklace, a ring—" she paused. "Um, the bracelet… is not…"

Ziva, saying "um?" Ziva, treading cautiously? Ziva, uncertain? Ziva— He saw her look soften and he smiled. Ziva, being supportive. Ziva… being a friend. "Thank you."

She slipped her hand into her pocket. "She did not want to give this up. They let her keep it until they took her to surgery." Staring into his eyes, she held her closed hand above his open one and gently opened her fingers, letting it trickle into his hand. The faceted edge of the silver medallion caught the light, winking and blinking.

"I… gave her that bracelet. Forty years ago."

"I know." He was unsurprised by her answer. She turned it over in his hand. "It is very beautiful. Ealasaid. A Gaelic name, no?"

"A Gaelic name, yes," he smiled. She turned the medallion over. The _Donald_ was more worn; it was plainly the side she wore facing inward.

"Ducky… you have been my friend for quite some time, now. You care very much for your friends. And we, for you. You are very wise, very—" her eyes searched the ceiling for the missing words. "Very insightful."

He could almost hear the 'but' coming.

"Forgive her."

He blinked. What? Ziva was gathering her purse and jacket. "Ziva, wait—"

She held up a hand to silence him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I will call later." She quickly left, ignoring his protestations.

Forgive her? It had all been her wretched mother's doing; any blame over the decades had been grossly misplaced. If anything, he should ask _her_ forgiveness for having believed the sham in the first place. He looked at the bracelet in his hand. It was just like Elizabeth to feel guilty over crimes she had not committed. Still feeling the weight of the past years in the tiny bit of silver in his hand, he set out to find some answers and settle in for the long haul.

/ / /

If emotions equated to physical exertion, today had been the Tour de France, Wimbledon finals and an Ironman Triathlon rolled into one—after weeks of running up and down emotional roller coaster tracks just for fun. He was bloody well exhausted.

But—he was safe in the waiting room as opposed to undergoing surgery. He reflexively rubbed his right hand.

"Hungry?"

He looked up. Tori had slipped up next to him, unnoticed. "No, thank you. She's still in surgery," he said before she could ask. "They had some difficulty debriding the bone fragments. They just started plating the bones—attaching plates and screws to each side and creating a permanent bandage between the two ends, if you will. How quickly it goes depends upon how much bone was lost, how stable the remaining bone is—but things are going pretty well."

Tori swallowed hard. "Is she—is she okay?" She sat down slowly, almost automatically.

"Overall, yes." He gave a ghost of a smile. "I know the surgeon, so I'm receiving fairly regular reports. It pays to have friends. Her vitals are all strong and steady; her general health other than her arm is excellent. We just have to wait it out."

"Doesn't drink—much," she smiled. "Doesn't smoke. She caught me smoking in junior high, she made me smoke the whole damned pack in front of her. Holy cow, I was sick. Cured me, though."

"I can well imagine."

"Mom?"

"Ro!" Tori jumped up and threw her arms around the young woman who had hurried up to them. Ducky rose and stood politely, but didn't intrude.

"How is she? What happened? I don't have the clearance to access patient records out of our area, the message the front desk gave me said pretty much nothing—"

"She fell. Off a stepladder. She has a broken arm, it's broken in multiple places, they're having to put in screws and plates—" Tori pressed her lips together.

'Ro' nodded. "Who's the surgeon?" She was amazingly assured for one who looked to be barely twenty.

When Tori faltered, Ducky spoke up. "Dr. Ted Ackerman. He's an excellent surgeon." The fact that he had maintained 95% of his fine motor skills after the attack last spring showed that to be true. A lesser surgeon could have meant retirement.

"Oh—Ro—Dr. Mallard—I'm sorry. Dr. Mallard—" She shook her head. "_Ducky_, this is my daughter, Rowena. Ro, this is Dr. Mallard. He's a—an old friend of Nana's. He was at the shop when she fell."

Nana? Ducky's startle must have been showing on his face.

"Aunt Lizzie adopted me legally. Even before she died, my mother…" She shook herself. "Long story for later. But—legally, she's my mother, I just grew up calling her Aunt Lizzie because it felt strange to call her Mom."

"But _I _felt funny calling her 'auntie,'" Ro added.

"I just can't believe you're old enough to be a mother." He smiled. "I can certainly do the math, but you barely look like you're in your twenties." Only a slight exaggeration.

"You're good for a woman's ego, Doctor."

Ro made a face. "Well, then, we were all were born when Mom was in single digits. That's so wrong on so many levels I don't want to go there."

"We?"

"Drew is in New York. NYU. Bronwyn is living in California with Dennys and Mad; she just turned eighteen. She and Ro have griped for years that it's grossly unfair that Andrew got the only 'normal' name." Tori gave her daughter's shoulders a squeeze and looked up at her in obvious pride. It was a long look up—Rowena would be close to eye to eye with Abby. "Ro is my baby. Sixteen. A senior at Wakefield. She's working here part time for early college credit work experience."

"Looks good on the application," Rowena said bluntly. "This day and age, you have to really stand out from the pack. This doesn't even begin to cut it, even with summers at Georgetown U."

"Applications to—"

"Medical school." She closed her eyes and held up crossed fingers. "I really want in at Johns-Hopkins."

"Medical school?" He grinned delightedly. It might be silly, but there was a vicarious pleasure at his former fiancée's granddaughter (now, _that_ progression was a sobering thought) going into a profession he held near and dear. "Any thoughts about a specialty yet?"

"Not pediatrics," she said with an expressive shudder.

Tori gave her an innocent smile. "I don't know, you were a very good babysitter over the years."

"Mm-hmm," she said with light sarcasm. "How did you describe the Torres boys? 'They make Cain and Abel look like the Everly Brothers' I think it was?"

Ducky laughed and Tori shrugged nonchalantly. "I sole it from Erma Bombeck."

"It still fit. They made Calvin and Hobbes look like statues." Rowena glanced at the clock. "Oh, dang, I need to be back. Call me when you hear anything? "

"As soon as we hear, you'll hear," her mother promised.

"It was nice to finally meet you—" Rowena stumbled over her thought and shook her head. "It was nice to finally meet you, Dr.—uh, Dr. Mallard."

Finally?

"I've, ah, I've heard your name before. From Nana," she said by way of explanation

He could feel the bracelet, his imagination making it a rock in his jacket pocket. Of course—the bracelet. Something she never took off. It would have been a cause for curiosity over the years. "And I'm equally as grateful to have met you. And your mother. And please—call me Ducky."

She flashed a smile for a second, then surprised him by giving him a quick hug before dashing off. At least his name wasn't a _bad_ association.

"She's a lovely young lady. Rather reminds me of Dennys," he said as they sat back down.

"That red hair crops up from time to time on the Stewart side of the family. The long, tall drink of water, however, is straight from my ex-husband's gene pool. Andrew takes more after me—kind of short, blonde and glasses. But he's always had a good sense of humor about it—in junior high, Lizzie helped him paint a t-shirt that read, 'Be nice to me, I'm the geek who will be your boss someday.' And, yes—I saved that shirt when he outgrew it. When he outruns Bill Gates, I'll frame it for his office."

"Along with his first dollar."

"Already did that. Well, a copy of his first check, anyway." She stared opening an insulated carry bag she had brought with her. "The artwork he did for NinjaQuest paid for his first two years at University. Gotta love it."

"NinjaQuest?"

She grinned. "Oh, Doctor, you and I are sadly out of date. NinjaQuest is _the_ hot game. They've put out six or seven upgrade packs, it's one of the top—" she wrinkled her nose in confusion. "Multi-player online whatchamacallits. I have no idea what I'm saying," she admitted with a laugh. "Drew tells me what he's doing, I smile, I nod, he's paying his own way through school so I'm delighted. I just feel like he's talking to me in a foreign language. Here."

He took the paper-wrapped packet. "What is this?"

"You need to eat something. You didn't eat a thing at tea, and I'm sure you're too smart to eat downstairs."

He laughed ruefully. "That's true enough."

She handed him a heavy serviette. "That's curried chicken on a very light rosemary bread. Abby thought you'd like it." She gave him a stern look over her glasses. "Eat."

He managed not to say "yes, ma'am" but obediently took a bite—and was surprised to find his appetite flying back. "Tori, this—this is wonderful."

She beamed. "Thank you. It's my recipe. And…" From the cooler she pulled a sealed thermal mug with the store's logo. "Tea. Ziva said you prefer Earl Grey. And you like milk in your tea." She followed that up with a Styrofoam cup which, when opened, showed to hold chilled milk.

He shook his head, smiling. "They do take care of this old man, don't they."

She gave him a speaking look. "Now it's my turn to make 'oh, you're not that old' comments. Since I don't see Aunt Lizzie as 'that old,' you certainly can't be."

"Now _you__'__re_ working on _my_ ego." As he finished the sandwich, she held up another quarter. "What about you?" He made a pointed look from her to the sandwich and back.

"Ziva came back to the shop. She and Abby and I stuffed ourselves; don't worry. Eat—before I start doing a really bad Jewish mother impression." She pointed to the latest offering. "Nut bread with pineapple cream cheese spread. I also have minced egg salad with ham, chopped walnut with shredded ginger carrot on honey buttered corn pone… and Brie with cinnamon apple on brioche." She set the other corners down on the seat between them. "I didn't know if you'd want dessert right after, so I just brought cookies for the most part. But I had to bring a slice of fudge cake."

He smiled and dabbed at his mouth. "Elizabeth used to make the most incredible chocolate cake. Dennys was quite the chocoholic."

"He still is. And this is the same recipe, you can tell me if it's as good as you remember." Once he had started on the second sandwich quarter and given it an approving nod, she pulled another mug from the cooler, popped the seal and took a sip. "Ziva and Abby—they certainly admire you."

"The feeling is mutual. I've worked with Abby since—well, since she started at NCIS, that's been, my—more than ten years… time certainly flies."

"And Ziva?"

"She's only been with us a few years. She's a liaison officer from Israel." He didn't feel comfortable going into too much detail. "There are times I feel I've adopted them—or they've adopted me. I'm the not quite daft elderly uncle who rambles off at the drop of a hat."

Tori snorted and almost choked on her tea. "Elderly. Right," she managed. "Oh, hey, I forgot—" She dug through her purse. "I remembered seeing this on one of the bookshelves in the office."

He opened the hinged photo frame. "Oh, good Lord…" He laughed. "I never knew she took this one—" He pointed to a picture of himself dozing by the pool, much of his skin a deep rose. "But I certainly remember that sunburn. This one, however…" He sighed. "Napa Valley Festival." His fingertip traced the drape of Elizabeth's hair over her shoulder. She was leaning against him, head on his chest, smiling shyly at the camera. He was oblivious to the photographer—Maddie, if he recalled correctly; he only had eyes for the young woman in his arms. "Saturday morning." No question of that. He sighed again. "Ealasaid," he said softly. The picture had faded, but her eyes were still stunning. "Oh, just look at her…" He knew he sounded like the love struck youth he had been and didn't care. "She's as beautiful now as she was then."

"No arguments from me, but I'm prejudiced." She propped her chin on the heel of her hand, looking at the photo. "You made a good looking couple."

"Thank you." He continued to stare at the photo. Yes—the Mexican shirt and jeans he'd borrowed from Dennys, when Den had declared his clothing too stiff and formal. The bright embroidery Elizabeth had stitched on her dress, the colors in the photo now muted with time. Her hand, lightly resting on his chest, the ID bracelet he'd given her only weeks before dangling on her arm.

"I—I didn't mean to make you…" Tori hesitated. "Melancholy," she finally chose.

"No, no, it's just…" He folded the frame back together. "You start wondering 'what if' when you meet up with your past. 'What if' Elizabeth's mother had kept her nose out of our business? 'What if' Elizabeth and I had married? 'What if' we had stayed in England afterward? Every action, no matter how small, has a cascade effect on the future. You might not have lost your parents. Or it might still have happened, but instead of Elizabeth and—Walter," he almost spat out the name. "Instead—I would have been there."

She smiled and covered his hand for a moment before accepting the pictures from him. "That would have been nice."

"Not necessarily. I would have been worse about your smoking." He tried to make the situation a little lighter.

"You can't live in the past," she said resignedly.

He managed a small smile. "But you can learn from it."

* * *

><p>4<p> 


	5. Duet

**Chapter Five: Duet**

_**Duet:** A piece of music  
>written for two vocalists<br>or instrumentalists._

* * *

><p><strong>May 9, 1969<strong>

"Who did you have to kill to get these seats?"

"No murder involved. I put the cart before the horse—I asked Dad _if_ I scrounged tickets, would he _please_ make sure you would be off for the concert. I found out it starts at 7:00, so that was no problem. He volunteered to carpool in to work so I could borrow his car and meet you at his office—that way you wouldn't have to drive rush hour to come pick me up. Then, before I could even say thank you and promise to do dishes for the rest of my life in payment, he started calling around and found a friend who has season box seats and had no interest in coming tonight." She grinned. "Now, that's who I might owe dishwashing to for forever."

"You wash, I'll dry." Donald shifted the picnic hamper to his other arm and followed Elizabeth down the steps. The usher politely stopped them, indicating their seats were in the terrace box section, not the garden box; she relented when Elizabeth said she just wanted to show off the view looking out toward the audience from the edge of the stage by the reflecting pool. Mindful of the watchful eye of the usher, Donald followed Elizabeth up for a quick look around the amphitheatre, trying not to be awed. He was relatively unsuccessful. He had seen pictures of the Hollywood Bowl in various tourist guides, but no picture could come close to the panoramic view. "This is… simply magnificent. But I would be absolutely terrified if I were on stage."

Elizabeth shrugged. "You get used to it. I guess you do, anyway." Smiling her thanks to the usher, she led him back up to the next level. "Now, _this_ is what I love about the Bowl." She opened the hamper and spread a cloth on a small table. "Not only do they let you bring in food, the boxes have actual tables. Although we've done all right up in the bleachers—you just have to get here early enough to spread out and eat, then clean up before the other seat holders show up."

"What if everyone shows up at the same time?"

Elizabeth laughed. "It gets cozy, that's for sure."

He watched her unpack paper plates and plastic tableware, followed by a lovely collection of food: cold roasted game hens; lettuce, cucumber and tomato salad; potato salad; fruit in jelly (Elizabeth called it "Jell-o"); crisps—ah, _chips_—and cold sodas, all chilled rather ingeniously (he thought) by waxed paper milk cartons filled with solid blocks of ice.

"I learned that trick in the Girl Scouts. When it melts, we can pour the water on the landscaping. And… never fear," she said with a sly smile, patting a smaller shoulder bag by her side. "Dessert is with us. It's a surprise. Pardon me—_pudding_, not dessert." She laughed. "See, I can switch languages, too!"

"Surprise, eh?" He grinned. "I'll be patient." It was easy to be patient with the dinner she had brought. "You should open a restaurant," he suggested after the first mouth-watering bite of chicken.

"Not a chance," she retorted. "One of Mother's friends owns Bourbon Street. It's a New Orleans/Mardi Gras/Cajun type of place. Really great food, but her husband is on the verge of a breakdown and she looks twenty years older than she is, all from the restaurant. Well, a lot because of their scuzzy business partner… Thanks—for the compliment. But, no thanks." She smiled. "Besides, it's more fun to cook for family and friends."

"I feel safe in speaking for the others—we appreciate it."

They kept up a light banter through dinner, discovering common likes and interests as well as dislikes and quirks. At her urging, he regaled her with tales of playing cricket; she knew enough about the sport to sigh and say, "Oh, you must look gorgeous in your whites."

If the best way to sweet up a cook is to compliment the dinner, the best way to capture a player's attention is to praise the game in some way. No cricket player has been born who is immune to that bit of flattery. "Well, I'd like to think I do," was the most modest thing he could think of saying, short of outright denial. "What about you? Sassy was telling us about something they play at the beach—um, vollerball? No, volleyball. I can't imagine diving to hit something the size of a football while wearing—" He broke off, remembering what she had worn while swimming, and imagining physics at work: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Body dives _this_ way to hit the ball, suit twists _that_ way and gravity takes is toll. He knew he was turning scarlet and concentrated on his plate. Unfortunately, it was empty.

If Elizabeth had noticed, she didn't say anything. "Football? A volleyball isn't anything like a football."

He shook his head. "Sorry—soccer. They call it soccer here."

"Ah. Well, it really doesn't matter," she said, gathering up the trash and putting it into a paper marketing bag she had tucked inside the hamper. "If it's a sport of any kind, I'm sunk. I wasn't just the last kid picked for a team I was beyond last. After the first couple of games, the teacher would usually take pity on me and have me take care of the equipment, or write down scores, or something—anything—that kept me off the field."

"Oh, you can't be as bad as all that," he laughed.

"Oh, yes, I can," she retorted. "Worse, even. I see a ball coming at me, I don't try to catch it or hit it—I duck. I flatten myself on the ground, I do the whole 'in case of nuclear attack, duck and cover' routine. We had an archery class in high school—don't ask. It's an ugly tale. Took tennis lessons as a kid—what a waste of money. Tried tennis again, in summer school—smacked a great forehand, ball went flying… so did my racket. Whacked my opponent right on the temple, knocked her out cold. Went bowling with the church youth group; dropped the ball on my foot, broke three toes. Took the requisite folk and square dance class in grade school—_grade_ school, mind you—and I tripped and pulled the whole line of kids down on the ground. Broke my ankle. Of course, the kids thought I'd done it on purpose in the hopes of getting us out of the assembly for our parents, so they treated me like a queen."

Donald snickered, turning it into a cough. He covered both with a long drink of his soda.

"Let's see—ice skating. Oh, yeah. Ice skating. It didn't help that Tish makes Peggy Fleming look like a novice. After her first section of classes, she skipped three levels. Me? By the end of _my_ first section I could go forward, unassisted… but I looked like the town drunk. I went backward, too. By accident. Faster than I was able to go forward. The instructor didn't see me coming." She shook her head sadly. "Go ahead, laugh—I would," she said, as he worked to stifle a snort. "There isn't a sport in the world I do well."

"You swim beautifully." No exaggeration, he could watch her for hours. Of course, she could be the lousiest swimmer in the state and he'd still love to watch her play in the water. The fading blush flamed again.

"When you live near the beach, that's not sport—that's self-preservation. And it's required of any Cal State student, so dad figured he'd beat it to the punch and have us all know how to swim before we got out of grammar school. It was as unavoidable as Scrabble."

"Did your father tell you about that Scrabble game?" At her blank look, he clarified. "I talked with my mother last Sunday, I told her all about the game. She was wishing that she had seen it—when I mentioned it to your father, he went home and recreated the board from the photograph Tish took, took another Polaroid snap and brought it to me the next day. Mother should get it next week."

Elizabeth looked enormously pleased. "I'll have to thank him. That was very sweet."

"Mother wishes she could play against you in person."

She was digging in the second hamper and glanced up with a smile and a flick of her eyebrow. "I'd love that."

(So would his incredibly canny mother. He had gone on and on about the spectacular game, eating up overseas charges with a word-for-word playback, when she casually asked, "What is her name, Donald?" He protested in vain—but within thirty seconds she had her answer, and he was rhapsodizing over her beauty, her intelligence, her wit… "Just think what you'll say after the _next_ forty-eight hours have passed," was her wry comment.)

"Fortunately, sports aren't the beginning and end of the world," she said briskly. "No offense to any cricket players in the box, that is."

"None taken. But I still think you're exaggerating."

"I'm not. I can barely dance, and that's only because you have a partner helping hold you up."

He smiled. "Well… we'll just have to check on that one of these weekends."

Now _she_ turned pink. "That would be lovely." She opened the smaller hamper. "Okay, close your eyes. This is a surprise." He did so, grinning in anticipation, listening to her rustle around a moment. Then: "Open your eyes."

"Mmmmh." On each plate was a miniature chocolate cake—not a cupcake, but a smaller version of her knockout fudge cake. Between them sat a small plate of what looked like sugar cookies. "_This_ is your sport, Ealasaid. If cooking were in the Olympics, you'd flatten the competition."

"It's fun to cook for people you care for. Ah, oh, it's mint. Chocolate mint. You said you liked mint chip ice cream, so—" she was becoming more and more flustered.

To cover their mutual embarrassment, he took a bite of the cake. "Oh. Oh, my." He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the cool mint filling his mouth. "I've never had anything like this before."

"It's an experiment."

"Sign me up as your laboratory rat any day."

She laughed. "I chopped up a bunch of those after dinner mints—the kind that's a chocolate sandwich with a layer of green crème de menthe in between—and added them to the batter. And put a little peppermint flavoring in the icing."

"This is incredible. Fantastic. Don't lose the recipe, whatever you do."

"I won't. I promise." She looked at him attentively. "Try a cookie."

He obligingly took a bite—and stopped. It wasn't what he considered an American sugar cookie; it was more like— "Shortbread?" At her smile, he nodded. "Shortbread. Just like my gran makes." Gran had never made individual round shortbread cookies, but who cared? These were fantastic.

She was beside herself with happiness. "Really? You're not pulling my leg? It's really okay?"

"Ealasaid, if I closed my eyes again, I'd swear I was back home."

A grin split her face. "Oh, I'm so glad! It's Grandmother Stewart's recipe. When she died, my father kept her recipe files, but my mother doesn't like to—she's not a very good cook," she covered quickly. He remembered her comment earlier: _it__'__s __fun __to __cook __for __people __you __care __for._ Yep; that lack of desire in the kitchen fit with the impression he had gotten from his little interaction with Mrs. Stewart. Apparently it skipped a generation on her side of the family.

"Well, your gran can rest easy. Her recipe files are in good hands."

She ducked her head, smiling, and tucked into her own dessert. At his suggestion, they left the shortbread for nibbling during the concert, but made quick work of the cake. The remains were cleared away and they moved their chairs closer together with only moments to spare before the start of the show. Elizabeth followed his 'come hither' gesture, snuggling up to his side as best the canvas chairs would allow. "Thank you," she said, her head resting on his shoulder.

"You're welcome," he said automatically. "For…?"

She smiled up at him. "For being here."

He wasn't so churlish as to point out that she had provided not only the tickets but the dinner as well. "Oh… then you are _very_ welcome." He completely ignored the announcement of the opening act. "There is _no_ place I would rather be." He stared down into her eyes, so dark in the twilight they looked like the deepest star sapphires. "No place, Ealasaid." He loved saying the name as much as he loved her expression when he said it. It was far too tempting… Tipping her chin up with a fingertip he touched a soft kiss to her lips. What the hell, the worst to happen might be an affronted slap.

Far from it. She was a little shy, but her response was definitely one of pleasure. "I… was hoping you'd kiss me," she said almost timidly.

With a smile, he obliged her again and then whispered, "We really ought to watch the show." With a faint giggle, she let him settle her head back on his shoulder and set his arm more securely about her.

The opening act, a brother and sister folk-rock duo, were actually quite good. They played songs made famous by other singers, plus a few he'd never heard before, accompanied by a couple of guitars in the background and occasionally a mandolin (the sister) or a banjo (the brother).

"Yours is prettier."

"Hmh?"

He used his chin to indicate the stage. "The 12-string guitar in back. It's dreadfully boring. Yours is much more interesting. When do I get to hear you play it?"

She giggled faintly "Someday."

After a couple of songs, they announced that there was a birthday in the house and led the audience in an enthusiastic rendition of _Happy __Birthday_. The saluted woman was in the back of the garden box seats, directly in front of them. Donald saw the brother's gaze move back and lock on Elizabeth. "Do you know him?" he asked softly as they launched into an audience-participation version of _Green,__Green_.

"No, not that I know of. Why?"

"Oh… nothing." He smiled down at her. "Guess he couldn't help but notice the prettiest girl in the audience." She laughed at his outrageous flirting—but it earned him another kiss. Still, as the duo finished their short set and exited the stage to polite applause, Donald couldn't quiet his unease.

The lights on the stage went completely black. From their vantage point, they could see dozens of dark figures on an equally dark stage moving about sure-footedly. But for a few rustlings and a light wind in the trees, the audience, too, was silent.

"_Ladies __and __gentlemen__…"_ The echoing bass voice sent a light chill down his spine. Elizabeth actually shivered and he drew her closer.

"…_The __Moody __Blues_."

The lights rose slowly as the seated orchestra launched into the piece he recognized as the group's interpretation of daybreak and dawn. As beautiful as it was on the record album, it was spectacular in person. They combined the rock and roll band—guitars, drums and the like—with the Los Angeles Philharmonic and tied it up with dramatic colored lights. It wasn't merely a concert; it was theatre.

After neatly moving to one of their big hits, _Tuesday __Afternoon,_ they performed a number of songs from their latest album, including one of Donald's favorites. He couldn't say why, but something about the line, "_Are __you __sitting __comfortably? __Let __Merlin __cast __his __spell_," had captivated him when he first heard it. From Elizabeth's dreamy look, she concurred. They rounded out the hour and a half show with a rendition of _Nights __in __White __Satin_ that had the audience leaping up for a standing ovation and cheering and screaming at the end.

The band came back for two encores, then the lead singer held up his hand for quiet. When relative calm had been achieved, he pulled the microphone off the stand. "As some of you may know, we have a new album being released in a few months." Quiet became pandemonium again. He waited out the tide then continued. "We've already started work on our next album—" More chaos; another patient wait. "It won't be out for another year or so—" There was a surprisingly loud "boo!" from the back of the amphitheater. "Patience, love." The audience laughed. "But we have a piece we're working on for that album. It was inspired by…" he looked high into the night's sky. "Recent… international events." He gave a fake cough. "Viet Nam," he muttered into the mike. Another fake cough. The audience murmured in assent to one another. "So, while this is still a work in progress, we are sure that you—like we—have… a question… for those in charge."

He returned the microphone to the stand and signaled the drummer who stood up and began clacking his sticks together overhead, slowly, rhythmically. Other members of the group started clapping, encouraging the audience to join in. Dozens of hands became hundreds, then thousands, the tempo growing faster and faster, pounding hands and stomping feet until the band and orchestra exploded in strong chords. As they stepped back up to the microphone, Donald was close enough to see the intensity on their faces, intensity bordering on anger.

_"__Why __do __we __never __get __an __answer_**  
><strong>_When __we're __knocking __at __the __door_**  
><strong>_With __a __thousand __million __questions_**  
><strong>_About __hate __and __death __and __war?_**  
><strong>_'Cause __when __we __stop __and __look __around __us,_**  
><strong>_There __is __nothing __that __we __need,_**  
><strong>_In __a __world __of __persecution_**  
><strong>_That __is __burning __in __its __greed.__"_

Elizabeth was staring at the stage, eyes wide in shock. "Wow," he breathed. With a faint shiver, she pressed closer. Talk about forceful…!

_"__Why __do __we __never __get __an __answer  
>When <em>_we're __knocking __at __the __door  
>Because <em>_the __truth __is __hard __to __swallow  
>That's <em>_what __the __war __of __love __is __for__ "_

The music abruptly changed to a gentler, more melodic tempo. The frenzied handclapping petered out and died all together. The lead singer who, moments before, had been bordering on rage now had his eyes closed, face uplifted in a look of peace. Even with his eyes closed, he played his guitar letter-perfect.

_"__It's __not __the __way __that __you __say __it  
>When <em>_you __do __those __things __to __me  
>It's <em>_more __the __way __that __you __mean __it  
>When <em>_you __tell __me __what __will __be__  
>And <em>_when __you __stop __and __think __about __it  
>You <em>_won't __believe __it's __true  
>That <em>_all __the __love __you've __been __giving  
>Has <em>_all __been __meant __for __you.__"_

He almost forgot to breathe. He could feel Elizabeth slip her hand over his that rested on her waist, lacing their fingers together. Almost absently he brushed a kiss over her hair.

_"__I'm __looking __for __someone __to __change __my __life,  
>I'm <em>_looking __for __a __miracle __in __my __life  
>And <em>_if __you __could __see __what __it's __done __to __me,  
>To <em>_lose __the __love __I __knew  
>Could <em>_safely __lead __me __through.__  
>Between <em>_the __silence __of __the __mountains,  
>And <em>_the __crashing __of __the __sea,  
>There <em>_lies __a __land __I __once __lived __in,  
>And <em>_she's __waiting __there __for __me._

_But in the gray of the morning,  
>My <em>_mind __becomes __confused,  
>Between <em>_the __dead __and __the __sleeping,  
>And <em>_the __road __that __I __must __choose._

_I'm looking for someone to change my life,  
>I'm <em>_looking __for __a __miracle __in __my __life  
>And <em>_if __you __could __see __what __it's __done __to __me,  
>To <em>_lose __the __love __I __knew,  
>Could <em>_safely __lead __me __to  
>The <em>_land __that __I __once __knew,  
>To <em>_learn __as __we __grow __old  
>The <em>_secrets __of __our __soul._

_It's not __the __way __that __you __say __it  
>When <em>_you __do __those __things __to __me  
>It's <em>_more __the __way __you __really __mean __it  
>When <em>_you __tell __me __what __will __be.__"_

"That is one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard." He could hear the catch in her voice. He nodded, not trusting his own voice not to break. He was still reeling as the band geared back up in tempo, finishing with a rousing repeat of the first lines. They ended with a resounding crash of drums and orchestra, cutting off into abrupt silence. After a stunned moment, the audience was on its feet again, screaming and applauding and whistling wildly, Donald and Elizabeth with them.

She was literally jumping up and down, gasping, "Oh, my God, oh, my God!" When the orchestra began to pick up and slip offstage and it was plain there would be no further encores, she half-collapsed in her chair. "Now… _that_… was a concert." She let out a deep sigh.

"_That_… was incredible," Donald amended.

She jumped back up and threw her arms about his neck. "That was beautiful. That last song was just…" She shook her head, words failing her. "Thank you for being here to share it with me."

"Always." He pulled back slightly and smiled down at her. "I guess… I should get you home," he said reluctantly.

"Well… is there a curfew on the dorm?"

He shrugged. "Doors lock after eleven. You just ring for security."

"It's Friday night, and Dad figured it would run late, so I don't have to be home until two. Well—I talked him into two, anyway." Hmm; over four hours. "You want to go to the breakwater?"

"Sure." He had no idea what a breakwater was or where it might be, but he was game for anything that gave him more time with her.

Considering the size of the crowd, it actually didn't take long for people to start making their way through the exits. He helped Elizabeth gather the trash and tossed the bag into a large bin; by the time he made his way back to their box, they could slowly stroll with the crowd toward the exit nearest where they had parked. It was a little awkward walking with her arm about his waist and his over her shoulders and hampers bumping their outside hips but there were no objections from either party. When she figured out that he had no idea what a breakwater was, she began telling him tales of growing up near the beach. "It's great, at night you have some fishermen hanging around, but people aren't all over the beach sunning themselves… Sometimes I'd go down there in the middle of the night, it's quiet, you just hear the waves crashing on the shore, the tide going in and out… Tish and Denny and I would ride our bikes down after school and eat fried clams and lemonade on the breakwater, then go shelling on the beach… when we got older, we decided it was more fun to slip out in the middle of the night and do this. The clam shack is open all day and all night, a lot of the pier is. Then we moved, and it's just not as much fun to hop in the car and drive there at two in the morning. There's something… illicit about sneaking out on your bike when you're ten. Taking the car keys is too adult."

"Did you ever get caught?"

"I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Around them, they could hear people calling out to lost members of groups. The garbled communication usually ended in two phrases: "I can't hear you!" and "Never mind, meet me at the ticket office!" One young man was calling desperately for "Annalee," first faintly then growing closer and closer.

"And there's a really great Chinese restaurant on the pier, Madame Chu's—well, it's the best that's close to our house. The best, period, is Pancho's—"

Donald laughed. "That's what Sassy said the first day we arrived! You're not joking—a Chinese restaurant named Pancho's?"

"Not joking. They have a cashew chicken that I would sell a vital organ to get the recipe. Madam Chu makes this—"

"Annalee!" It was the brother from the opening act—Mitchell Something, or Something Mitchell. He had stopped in front of them and was looking at Elizabeth with a big grin.

"I'm sorry?" she said politely.

"Anna, it's me. Mitch. Mitch Harper?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harper, but I don't believe we've met. I mean, I saw you perform tonight, with your sister—you were wonderful."

Now he looked confused. "You're not—Annabel Lee?"

"Isn't that a poem?" Donald asked. "Edgar Allen Poe?"

"She's also a singer. Freedom Concert in Sacramento last year?" He prompted.

Elizabeth shook her head apologetically, but Donald vaguely remembered the name. "She sang… _Amazing __Grace_?" A classmate who was a fan of folk music had picked up the album from the concert; it wasn't bad.

"Right. Duet with Mary Travers. Made the top 40." He turned back to Elizabeth, but now looked a little hesitant. "You do look a lot like her," he said tentatively. "But… maybe she's taller…?"

Donald remembered the picture of the two blondes from the inner fold of the double album. "Doesn't she have to wear smoked glasses? Something about damage to her optic nerve, she can't be in even the dimmest light without protective lenses?"

Mr. Harper almost gasped. "Those giant glasses. I totally forgot. _How_ could I forget? You're right." He shook his head ruefully. "I am so sorry for accosting you like that."

Elizabeth smiled. "Not a problem. It's the first time I've ever been mistaken for a celebrity! Usually it's, 'Oh, you're Dennys Stewart's little sister, he was such a good student in history… geography… algebra… French…" She ticked the subjects off on her fingers. "I can't tell you how glad I was when we moved and I got to be the first one going to my high school."

Donald and Mr. Harper both laughed, and Mr. Harper held out a hand. "Again, I apologize. I didn't mean to disrupt your date."

Elizabeth politely shook his hand, but slightly tightened the one she had around Donald's waist. Smiling, he said, "Nothing we can't recover from."

As they continued on their way, she tipped her head and gave him a sly look. "Now, if anyone is going to be mistaken for a celebrity—"

"Please, no," he mock-groaned.

"What, you don't like people thinking—"

"I packed away every turtleneck I've ever owned because of that show. Come on. You don't think I really look like him, do you?"

She stopped, pulling them out of the main flow of traffic. "Well…" She reached up to brush back a lock of hair that was always threatening to fall into his eyes. "You're both blonde," she teased.

"So are you and Annalee," he retorted with a near-smirk.

"You both have lovely blue eyes," she continued.

Hmm, he was stuck on that one. "So do you." At least he had half of the equation, anyway.

"He looks sooooooo serious, so… grim. And you…?" She brushed back the falling hair again, this time trailing her fingertips down his cheek. "Not grim," she whispered with a smile.

"Not grim?"

"Mm-mmh." Her eyes twinkled at him and she reached up to whisper in his ear. "I think you're much better looking than any ol' Russian spy." She punctuated her comment with a kiss to his cheek, a slow, soft caress. "Much." She lightly nipped his earlobe with her lips.

Any doubt that his affections weren't reciprocated was laid to rest then and there. "That's reassuring to know," he murmured before turning slightly and capturing her mouth in a long, lingering kiss.

They would have stood there for hours had a not-quite-teenaged girl followed by her scolding mother not plowed into them. "You, ah, still want to go to the breakwater?" Elizabeth stared at the button in the middle of his shirt.

A lonely wall of rocks—sitting there listening to the tide while holding his girl close and trying to keep her warm? "I'd love to." _His_ girl. There was something very right about that phrase.

He was still too uncertain about his driving ability to drive one-handed with his arm about her shoulders—darn it. But a week on the road had given him the confidence to drive quickly, and they were soon winding their way down the California coastline to Redondo Beach. At a quarter to eleven there weren't many cars in the parking lot: some dedicated fishermen, a few teens hanging out at the arcade and some late night diners at the surrounding restaurants. She pointed out a number of gift stores—all closed at this hour—as well as various snack shops, most of which were open. Still full from dinner, they purchased a small container of fried clams and sauce as well as lemonades and made their way to the manmade rock wall. Elizabeth had brought along something she called her "faire cloak" in case the late spring night turned on them—double layers of heavy fabric, it gave them something to sit on as well as a cover.

The clams weren't bad, considering the lateness of the hour and that they had probably been cooked hours before. The zingy dipping sauce actually made them quite tasty, and the lemonade was superb. But it was definitely the company that made for an enjoyable time. Elizabeth showed off her climbing abilities by scampering down with the trash and back up the rocks in under three minutes. "And you said you weren't inclined toward sports," he laughed. "You're a regular mountain goat when it comes to climbing."

"Only down here. I know this rock pile like the back of my hand," she boasted, settling back next to him and cuddling under the fleecy lining of the cloak. She pointed out toward the middle of the ocean. "Look. Party boat."

"How can you see that from here? Are you a superhero like Wonder Woman?" he teased. "Maybe they're just fishing. Or… maybe…" he drew out dramatically, "They're a Russian trawler, spying on us from a distance."

"Spying on us. Uh… huh," she said doubtfully. "Trust me. It's Friday night, it's a party boat."

"So they aren't spying on us?"

"Nope."

"Good." He tipped her chin toward him. "Before we were so rudely interrupted earlier…" He silenced her giggle with a kiss she eagerly returned. "As much fun as sneaking out at midnight?" he murmured.

"More." She shivered slightly and rubbed her cheek against his chest.

He wrapped the cloak about them more tightly; hidden from view, it was enormously tempting to rush things along, to hold her and caress her in ways that knowing her a week gave him no call to do. "Oh, Ealasaid…"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, my darling. Everything—right now, everything is perfect." He wrapped his arms around her more tightly. "Do you—do you believe in—" he swallowed hard. "Love at first sight?"

She was silent for what seemed like forever. "I didn't before." Her voice was so soft it almost disappeared in the waves.

"I love you, Ealasaid." His heart was pounding so hard he was surprised it wasn't making her head bounce. "I—I think I fell in love with you the moment I met you. I just wanted to sit with you. Be near you. Listen to you. Look into your eyes. And now, now I want to hold you… kiss you…" His hand reached up to cup her cheek. "I don't want to let you go."

"I don't want to be let go."

He let out a deep breath. "Good."

They sat there in a comfortable silence for a long while, listening to the ocean and the occasional seagull. "Donald?"

"Yes?"

She twisted around slightly so she could look up at him. "I love you, too." She stared at him a long moment; he could feel she wanted to say something more, so he remained silent. Finally she said, "I've never… I've never felt like this before. I've never loved anyone… like this… before."

He nodded, understanding completely. This wasn't the first time he'd fallen in love. But it was the first time he'd ever had such a feeling of completeness with someone. "I wish I could stop time."

"Well… we can. For a couple of hours, anyway."

The rest of the night was spent quietly letting their breathing match the slow pulse of the tides. Frequent kisses… occasional words. All the important things had already been said.

"So… you and Edward will be here for dinner tonight?" Elizabeth whispered.

Donald nodded. "And apparently he will be bringing a young lady." His voice was low; even though he had brought her home before her witching hour, there was no sense in waking the household.

"So soon?" Her eyebrows rose.

"Well, once he heard Tish was engaged…" Actually, she was his pair-off in clinic.

She smiled ruefully. "I'll give him credit—he doesn't poach." She stopped on the front porch and turned to face him.

He slipped his arms under her cloak and about her waist. "You look like Little Red Riding Hood."

She tipped her head coquettishly. "My, what big eyes you have."

He pulled her closer. "Would I be totally out of line to ask for a good night kiss?"

"Well…" she shrugged. "You can always _ask_…" Her eyes danced with merriment.

"Aah." He barely touched his lips to her ear. "May I?" His breath stirred tiny tendrils that had come loose from her braid.

"Yes… oh, yes, you _may_…" The teasing tone she started with quickly disappeared.

He swore it would be one kiss. One chaste, innocent kiss after a date was the right thing to do—no matter what had happened before goodnights were being said. By the time they pulled apart at his count he had borrowed credits against the next twenty-three dates… and those last were far from chaste or innocent.

Elizabeth stirred from his shoulder. "I hear Robbie. I'd better go in before he starts barking…"

He nodded reluctantly. "Good night." One last kiss brushed over her forehead. "Sweet dreams until morning, my mother would say."

"They'll be of you. Of course they'll be sweet." His kiss was returned, and in a blink she had slipped into the house without the collie waiting just inside the door going from panting to barking.

She loved him.

It punctuated every thought back to the university. Turn onto Crenshaw. (She loves me.) Turn right at Pacific Coast Highway. (She _loves_ me.) Watch the sharp turn onto the freeway onramp. (_She_ loves _me_.) Don't forget to move over a lane until you get closer to the Santa Monica Freeway. (She loves me. Oh, my god… _she __loves __me_!)

The security guard for the dorm gave him a knowing grin as he unlocked the side door in response to the buzzer. "Hot date, hunh?"

Donald let out a sigh. "The best."

The guard was at least fifteen years older than Donald, maybe more. He nodded. "Got lucky? Med students always do." He winked, rather lewdly Donald thought.

"No—not 'lucky,'" Donald corrected him slowly. "It was… better than that."

The look he got in return was one of pure astonishment. "Better than—"

He nodded, cutting him off.

"How?"

Donald thought for a second then smiled. "Because… I just spent the evening… with the woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with." With a broad grin to the astonished guard he fairly danced up the five flights of stairs and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and grinning like a fool.

_She loves me. _

_Elizabeth Mallard… such a nice ring to it. _

_/ / / / /_

**May 10, 1969**

The hammering on the door started with a gentle tapping, moved to a firmer knock, and then went to insistent pounding. "Go away," Donald groaned, pulling the covers over his head and burrowing under the pillow. The knocking continued, now the side of a fist instead of knuckles. He reached for the alarm clock, knocked it to the floor, scrabbled it back up—"Seven o'clock?"—and stumbled to the door. As he flung open the door, he belatedly realized he hadn't grabbed his robe and sent up a silent 'thank you' to whatever gods made sure he had only peeled down as far as his shorts before finally retiring… at four a.m. Three hours earlier. He didn't even try for a civil "good morning" to Eddie, simply standing with a hand on the open door and an expectant look on his face.

"Well, aren't you the slug-a-bed," Eddie said with a grin. "What time did you roll in?"

"Late."

"Mmh. Informative today, aren't we?" He folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. "So how was the big date with the doctor's daughter?"

"Nice." He refrained from saying, 'she does have a name of her own, you know.'

"Where did you go?"

"Concert."

Eddie shook his head in amazement. "Good lord, Ducky, I've never known you to be so… loquacious."

Donald managed a small smile. "And do you even know the definition of the word?"

Eddie snorted. "Please. I've known you for five years. That's one word I definitely know the meaning of from knowing you." He shoved his hands in his pants pockets. "Coming down for breakfast?"

Donald shook his head. "I'm not hungry. And I'd really like to get some more sleep before we go up to Dr. Stewart's."

"Ho-ho, you really _did_ get in late last night!" Eddie looked around to make sure no other students were milling around; they were either still in bed on long gone. "So…?"

Donald sighed and moved aside. He wasn't going to get any peace unless and until he gave Eddie some sort of report on the night before. He threw on his robe and plopped onto the foot of the bed. "We went to a concert."

"I gathered as much already. Symphony Orchestra?"

Donald bit back a smile. "Philharmonic, actually."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Figures. Ducky, Ducky, Ducky, you are not going to score with the birds taking them to that longhair stuff."

"Oh."

"You need to take her out to a nice place—not too expensive, or they get set to expect that every time. Then maybe a double feature—they have these things called drive-ins here, absolutely smashing idea, you sit in your automobile while you watch the films." He grinned. "Nobody actually watches the films. And nobody can see you snogging with your girl."

"I'll… remember that."

"Once in a while, maybe take 'em to a concert. A rock and roll concert, Ducky, rock and roll. Rock. And. Roll. Because with rock and roll music… other things rock and roll, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I'm sure I do."

"Sit far up in the terrace—"

"Bleachers."

"Pardon?"

"Bleachers. What we call the terrace seats, they call bleachers."

Eddie frowned. "Are you certain?"

Donald thought back to the concert the night before and smiled. "Oh, yes. I'm certain."

Eddie shrugged. "Bleachers, then. Go sit in the _bleachers_, as far up as you can. You could be doing it in time to the bass drum and nobody would notice that far up."

"Wonderful mental image you've given me. Thank you."

"Just offering you some tips—"

"I don't need any, thank you."

Eddie grinned wickedly. "Oh, _reallll__**-**_ly?"

"What I mean is I am quite happy with my relationship with Elizabeth how it is—"

"Re_la_tionship, is it?"

He propped an elbow on the table next to the foot of bed and plopped his cheek on it. "Yes, Edward," he said patiently. "Relationship. Let me try to define it for you. You _meet_ a young lady. You become _friends_ with the young lady. You take the young lady to places of mutual interest and entertainment. You _talk_ with the young lady. You discover each other's likes and dislikes, hobbies and activities, hopes and dreams…" He was talking to Eddie, but seeing Elizabeth. "You find out what's important to each other. You start to question your feelings for her, you hope she shares your regard… you start looking at your future, picturing her with you…" His voice trailed off.

After a long moment, Eddie cleared his throat quietly. "I, ah…" He met Donald's hesitant gaze, then his eyes dropped again. "I… Well. I… You've—you've really fallen for her, haven't you, Don?"

Don. Not Ducky. No joking, not now. He nodded silently.

"Does she—does she know?"

He smiled and bit back a laugh. "Ah—yes."

"And…?"

"And she…" he smiled again, thinking of his rambling discourse. "She… shares my regard."

Eddie nodded slowly. "That's good. Very good." He tugged at his ear; after five years, Donald knew that meant he was embarrassed. "Ah, listen… would you mind if I didn't ride up with you?"

"No, but—what about Amanda?"

"Well, actually—she was going to drive us. Dr. Stewart knows her; he says the more the merrier. So she's driving. Us. Us, I mean she and I driving up—" he shifted uncomfortably.

"That's fine." Hmm; maybe he could take Elizabeth out after dinner? Would twice in two days be too much for her father to bear?

"Don?"

"Mmh?" Eddie was in an uncommonly serious mood; he'd called him 'Don' twice.

"What do you know about Michigan?"

"It's… a state. And a lake. In the Midwest, I believe. Northwest? Near Ontario. I'm not clear on what constitutes Midwest, Northwest, so forth—there aren't clear-cut boundaries. Why?"

"Amanda is from Michigan. After she graduates this year, she's going back."

Boy, he was tired. _Very_ tired. He should have picked up on this long ago. "And you're planning on following her there."

For a split second he looked like the old Eddie—cocky and a little defiant. Then it was gone. "Yeah. You think I'm crazy?"

Donald let out a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired. "Well… I can't very well point a finger and say 'you've only known her since Monday' when I've only known Elizabeth three days longer. But, Eddie—please, don't take this badly, but—I've known you for most of five years. I've seen you go through girlfriends like—"

"I know. I _know_."

"Does _she_ know how you feel?"

Eddie gave him a 'sure, sure' smile, nodding… then the smile faded and he shook his head. "Don," he said hesitantly, "I—I haven't even kissed her yet."

_Now_ he was awake. Back home, 'Fast Eddie' would have been regaling them by the end of the first week with tales of his wild lovemaking with his new sweet. This was something completely new and totally unexpected. "Oh," he said in a serious tone. "Well—that's… different."

"I don't want her to think I just want a piece of—"

"No, no, I understand. But—you've gone out a couple of times this week. I'm not saying you should—well, take her up to the bleachers," he said with a smile. "But if you don't at least give her a kiss good night, she might think you're—" he gave him a meaningful look. "Not interested."

"Don…" Eddie closed his eyes. "This is the one time in my life I really, really… don't want to mess up."

"I know." He reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Believe me… I know."

* * *

><p>5<p> 


	6. Partita Nocturne

**Chapter Six: Partita Nocturne**

_**Partita:** Suite of Baroque dances.  
><em>_**Nocturne:** A musical composition  
>that has a romantic or dreamy<br>character with nocturnal associations;  
>a piece written for the night.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>May 10, 1969<strong>

Since Amanda had been at USC for four years, she was quite knowledgeable about the freeway system and surrounding cities. They decided to split the caravan duties—she would lead the way to the South Bay, showing Donald a few shortcuts to, from and on the freeways, then he would take over and return the favor (Elizabeth having taught him a few tricks known only to the locals).

He pulled up just past the driveway, pleased to see Madalena's van in the driveway and Tish coming down the walk with her fiancé. Despite Tish's dodge about being engaged, he actually liked the young man; plus, this gave an even balance to the couples. "Liz and Mad are inside," she called. "Door's unlocked." She looked around. "No Eddie?"

He could see Eddie talking to Amanda in the front seat of her car. "He and Amanda will be along."

"Okay. We're going to pick up Dad at the repair shop. Someone blew the light and T-boned him."

He stopped short. "That's awful! Is he all right? Was he hurt?"

"He's okay. They checked him out at South Bay; he's kind of bounced and bruised, but nothing broken. Says what he needs is a stiff drink and a hot bath. He's mostly mad about the car."

Typical parent, even for his own accident. "Do you need any help?"

"Nah, we've got it covered. We'll be back in about an hour. Mom's still at her—" she hesitated a moment. "Tennis lesson. Oh—" she gave him a sly smile. "Biz is making a special dinner for you boys."

In his opinion, anything she cooked was special. "Oh?"

She grinned and hopped into the passenger seat of Gene's car. "You'll find out."

There was music pouring out from the back of the house. He started to follow it, but caught sight of movement in the yard. He stood in the living room, staring out through the glass doors, grinning. Maddie and Elizabeth were marching around in time to the music, Maddie directing. No, marching wasn't quite the right description—they were dancing, something that looked like the old country dances he saw at historical fairs.

Elizabeth caught sight of him and waved to him to come outside. "Thank God! Save me, Donald!"

That gave birth to all manner of thoughts—many indecent. "From what?"

"Maddie is making me dance!"

Madalena stood off to the side, hands on hips, a look of long-suffering patience about her. "One dance. _One_ _dance_. And it's not that hard."

"It's like folk dancing in grade school," Elizabeth grumbled. "I'm telling you… I just know someone is gonna get hurt."

"And I told _you_… I couldn't wait to get the chance to dance with you," he quietly countered.

She considered it for a moment. "Hmm… well…" She looked at him slyly. "If you join us…"

"Sure," he said quickly. He'd rather be holding her close in a nice, slow waltz, but even holding her hand in a stately court dance would be worth it. Holding her, _period_, was the important part of the equation.

"There's some sort of event Maddie and Den are going to tonight, it's a Renaissance dance. Dennys has costumes you and Eddie can borrow, I'm sure they'll fit—and Tish has something for Mandy, I'm sure."

_Hold __it._ "Costumes?" he blanched.

"Garb," Madalena corrected. "Come on, it will be fun," she wheedled. "The dance is really easy—"

"And I'm still screwing it up," Elizabeth argued.

"You'll do better, now. Denny and I will dance in front of you guys, you just do whatever we do."

Heh, heh, heh. He'd almost caught Dennys and Maddie 'in the act' the last weekend, making out like crazy in the conversation pit in the entertainment room. Tiptoeing away, he had kept his amusement to himself when they emerged a few minutes later, Dennys telling Tish that he'd be home later. As in the next morning. Oh, yeah—he'd _love_ to do whatever Dennys and Madalena did!

_Shame on you. How can you think things like that about such a sweet, innocent young woman?_

He looked down as Elizabeth took his hand. "I apologize in advance if I break your toes," she said mournfully, and he laughed.

_How? __Easily._"I'm sure we'll come through just fine."

Madalena ran over to the portable record player she'd dragged outside and put the stylus back to the end of the prior song. She dashed back and stood next to Dennys, holding his hand. "Okay, watch us for one set, I'll tell you when to follow."

It was a stately dance, almost like a wedding march. Step-together, step-together. Side steps one way, side steps back. A quarter turn so they faced each other, step forward, step back. Hands together, step, step, step, step in a circle—

"I told you, this is like folk dancing in grade school, and you know what a mess that was!" Elizabeth almost hissed at him.

"Yes, but I'm happy for any excuse to hold your hand."

She started for a minute, then looked up at him, smiling slowly. They were so distracted, they missed Maddie telling them to start the next set and follow their lead. "I need to watch again!" Elizabeth covered quickly.

They paid more attention and when the third set started, stepped forward gamely. They made it to the turns to face one another with no problems (no big feat, it was only ten seconds' worth of music at best). Elizabeth misjudged the distance and bumped into Donald as they stepped toward each other. "Sorry!"

"No damage."

They fumbled through several sets of the dance. "Sorry!" "Quite all right." "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry!" "Nothing broken." "Oh, Donald!" "It's fine, really, it doesn't hurt." Amanda and Eddie had joined in halfway through the second set, Amanda picking it up quickly and Eddie willing to do anything that interested her—and doing a creditable job with the steps. But by the time Madalena put the song on for the fourth time, Elizabeth and Donald were able to stumble through with no collisions if not with grace.

"You'll do great!" she bubbled. "And I promise, you don't have to do more than this… this year. Now: garb!"

"Now, kitchen," Elizabeth countered. She turned to Donald. "First things, first. I need your help in the kitchen."

"This should prove interesting," he laughed, walking out of the room with his arm about her waist. "I'm not the best cook."

"You did just fine last Saturday—but, actually, I need you to interpret one of my grandmother's recipes. What in the world is an Aga?"

/ / /

Having translated Grandmother Stewart's recipe for Yorkshire pudding, defined "Aga" and figured out what the setting on an American oven should be, Donald joined Dr. Stewart for the assessment of his first week of clinic duty.

As Tish had said, he was a little banged up from his accident, but not much worse for it. His right wrist was wrapped in an Ace bandage and a couple of gauze patches decorated his forehead and one cheek. "Thank God for safety glass," he said, indicating his forehead. "V-and-t?" he asked, heading to the bar. Without waiting for a reply, he poured tonic water into two glasses, added ice and a measure of vodka and threw in slices of lime. He led the way to his study, handed a drink to Donald, who took it with a polite murmur, and sat down at his desk. "Hmm." He flipped open a file folder. "Excellent report from Dr. Morton," the clinic coordinator said. "Punctual, attentive, quick study… very personable with the patients, very understanding… your view of the week?"

Donald stared into his drink; he wasn't overly fond of vodka, but had taken it to be gracious. Drinking it was difficult. Now the harder part: keeping his assessment polite, but honest. "Well, sir… I understand that the geriatric center is a new project. And the staff is new to the area as well. Many schools have only just added studies specializing in geriatric medicine." Dr. Stewart nodded. "I think that as time goes on, people… more suited… to this area of study will gravitate to it and those who are not will move on to other areas." There. That was politic.

Dr. Stewart pushed away from his desk, walked around it and half-perched on the corner next to Donald's chair. "And you have met some who should 'move on to other areas?'"

He took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes. It's not for a lack of medical training, sir. I think that some people just don't understand that when it comes to the elderly they aren't in control of what they are doing any more than an infant. They aren't deliberately forgetting things, they don't choose to lose control of their body—but people understand with an infant far more than then do with an adult. They don't understand that a person can master a task, learn to do something—and have it slip from them. Perhaps there's also the underlying fear that if it could happen to John Smith… it could happen to them. Some people, anyway."

Dr. Stewart nodded slowly, sipping his own drink. "Excellent observation, Mr. Mallard." He smiled. "Sorry. Donald." Donald looked up, startled by the familiarity. "It seemed a little awkward to refer to my daughter's beau as 'mister.'"

"Ah. Oh." Donald nodded. Beau. Erk. "Yes. Yes, sir."

Dr. Stewart's eyes twinkled. "Actually, I was wondering if I should bother with your review—or simply ask Lizzie. I didn't count the nights you were on the telephone together—but I have a feeling you are completely stripped of change."

Almost. "I'm sorry, sir. We'll try to—"

"Talk less? No, thank you. I don't plan to thwart Elizabeth's keeping Ma Bell in the black—I'd hate to see her cooking suffer. And I'm sure you weren't discussing patient specifics, even though I have it on good authority that you each told the other '_all_ about our days.'"

Oh, God, he might as well go back to the dorm and start packing.

"Don't worry, young man. I'm not planning on raking you over the coals." He reached over and lightly slapped Donald's knee. "You're not like one of those kids you see up on Hollywood Boulevard. You're stable. Sensible. Respectful. A good lad."

Donald thought he sounded as dull as ditchwater. Oh, well. As for respectful… he recalled his thoughts along the breakwater the night before. Not entirely respectful. Barely respectful, actually.

"I have no objections to you continuing to see Lizzie. But what will happen when you return home?"

He didn't even want to think of that. He knew, he _knew_, deep down in his heart that Elizabeth Stewart was the woman he wanted to marry. But it wasn't something you could say to a father after having known his daughter for one week. He took a sip of his vodka and tonic and tried not to shudder. "Well, sir," he finally managed. "I suppose I'll help support the Royal Mail. To excess."

Dr. Stewart chuckled. "I'd best buy up all the airmail stamps while I have the chance." He nodded toward the door. "Send Mr. Langley in."

He passed Eddie under a patio umbrella, having a quiet coze with Amanda. "Your turn," he murmured, tapping him on the shoulder. He stood in the shade, watching Elizabeth bounce on the end of the low diving board. She jumped up, grabbed her knees and "cannonballed" into the water with a huge splash. He grinned, then his smile slowly faded and he sighed a bit. _What __will __happen __when __you __return __home?_ Would Elizabeth be willing to immigrate to England? Or would it be for him to come to America permanently? Either way, one would leave behind family and friends for the other. He watched her swim over to the ladder and climb up, tipping her head to wring out her hair. She smiled over at him and he sighed again, enjoying the warmth he took from her gaze. God… he'd move halfway around the world and back for her. America or England… Africa or Iceland. It didn't matter, so long as she was there.

"Congratulations."

Donald looked down in surprise; he'd forgotten Amanda was sitting at the table. "Pardon?"

She grinned up at him and waggled her eyebrows. "Oh, I know that look. So, have you asked her to marry you yet?"

He wished he hadn't left his drink in the study. "_Pardon_?" he repeated, choking a little.

"Don, even Stevie Wonder could see how you look at her." Her face softened. "And how she looks at you. This isn't some stupid summer fling between the two of you."

He'd meant every word he had said the night before. And he knew Elizabeth wasn't toying with him, either. It was just a little… _daunting_ realizing that their feelings were so obvious to everyone else. "No, it's not," he admitted. "And… no. I haven't." He smiled at her. "Not yet."

"Better hustle before the dragon lady strikes out."

He slipped into a chair. "Dragon lady? Who is that?"

Amanda glanced around. "I know I'm a guest in her house, but I've run into Julia Stewart plenty of times over the past four years. And Sassy is my best friend. The woman is a bitch." She held up a hand. "Julia, I mean. Not Sassy."

He hated to admit it, but he wasn't arguing her assessment. "She does seem a little… demanding," he said politely.

"You have no idea. Couple of years ago, Tish was dating this guy—he was studying to be a cardiologist. Absolutely brilliant. Absolute sweetheart, too. I don't know how, but Mama broke them up. I mean, Tish is a pretty stubborn girl, so I don't know how her mom won—but she did. Not that Gene's a bad fellow, I like him. I think they'll do well together. But dragon lady has this 'thing' about her daughters not marrying doctors—considering she married one, that's a little weird, if you ask me. But if I were you, I'd keep this romance out of her earshot—and at the end of summer, tell Lizzie to pack her bags and run away with you." She took a sip of her soda. "That's the only way you'll ever get her, bud."

As if on cue, the patio door open and Mrs. Stewart stepped out. She had just arrived home and looked like she was ready for a photo shoot for an article on women's sports. From a distance, she looked quite nice—long, tanned limbs beautifully set off her stark white tennis outfit, and her icy pale blonde hair was pulled back from her face with a non-regulation colorful hair band. It was too bad her smile didn't go higher than her mouth. "Bizzy!"

Elizabeth looked around almost guiltily. She and Tish were in the shallow end of the pool, playing against Gene and Dennys, tossing plastic rings toward a bobbing target.

"You've left the kitchen a dis_as_ter, dear!"

Donald bristled. There was no way that the kitchen had gone from just shy of sparkling clean to 'disaster' in an hour. He could see Elizabeth sigh and start toward the steps, but Tish stopped her. Tish said something he couldn't hear, then tread water over to the steps and walked out. At her mother's frown, she said, voice carrying, "Elizabeth does all the cooking, it's only fair if I do cleanup." Without giving her mother a chance to respond, she grabbed a towel, wrapped it around herself and sailed into the house.

Donald stared at the tabletop, hiding a smile. He wondered if Tish did it deliberately—she would tease Elizabeth with "Bizzy" at the drop of a hat, but when her mother was around, the disliked nickname never passed her lips. It reminded him of the old saw, "Nobody beats up my kid brother… except for me!" He watched Mrs. Steward stare after Tish, eyes narrowed and frowning slightly; it wasn't hard to figure out where Elizabeth had learned to be timid in the face of disapproval. Well, if something could be learned, it could be _un_-learned. His mother would see to that, if he didn't. He grinned at the thought of his mother going up against Julia Stewart. Priceless.

"What?" Amanda asked with a laugh.

"Hmm?"

"You suddenly got this big grin on your face. What made that happen?"

"Oh… just thinking about my mother."

"Your _mother_?"

"Mother is… a very strong-willed woman."

She caught on immediately. "And she might kick the dragon lady off her throne?"

"Or something like."

"I want popcorn rights. I could pay off my student loans."

"They're yours." Still chuckling, he strolled over and squatted next to the side of the pool. Elizabeth swam over to meet him. "Hello, my darling."

She turned pink. "Hi," she said shyly.

"Room in there for one more?"

"Oh, I think you can squeeze in." She looked over the open V of his neckline. "Sunburn looks a lot better."

"Learned my lesson," he said ruefully.

"Go get changed. I'll—ah, I'll do your back."

Oh, yeah… those slender hands, rubbing suntan lotion into his skin… He swallowed hard. "Thanks," he managed. "Be right back."

/ / /

Of the ten people at the dinner table, at least nine were having a good time. Compliments over dinner—classic roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and all the trimmings—were fast and furious, and quite sincere. "My mother was the best cook I'd ever known," Dr. Stewart said. "But Lizzie puts her to shame. I wish she were still alive, the two of you would be quite a force in the kitchen."

Elizabeth blushed faintly. "I wish so, too. But I'm glad you have all of her recipes, at least. I just wish she had written all of them down. She made the most incredible gingerbread—" a faintly derisive snort from her mother interrupted her. "I can't duplicate it," she finished.

"Well, it's been delicious every Christmas having you try," her father said smoothly.

There was another vaguely unpleasant noise. Donald gritted his teeth. "I'm quite envious, Dr. Stewart," he said smoothly. "I adore my mother, and she's a mean Scrabble player—but even she is the first to admit that she isn't the best cook," he finished diplomatically. "Gran can't figure out what happened—_she__'__s_ a great cook, it just seems to have skipped my mother's generation."

"Did it skip to your generation?" Tish teased.

"Well—your sister is working on that," he laughed. "But at least I have a box of recipes to practice on when I go home."

"Really?" Elizabeth perked up. "Anything you want to share?"

"Oh, the best scones in the world—"

Mrs. Stewart actually rolled her eyes. Apparently if the subject didn't interest her, it shouldn't interest anyone.

"Hey, we'd better get to dessert if we're going to get dressed and be there on time," Tish quickly interjected. She was adept at reading her mother—that was for sure.

"Well, I figured we were having such a formal, Sunday-type dinner on a Saturday afternoon… that we should have a nice, casual dessert." Elizabeth grinned merrily. "Hot fudge banana split sundaes!"

It was messy, but it was fun. Even Mrs. Stewart got into the game, pouring caramel and fudge all over and using what had to be half a can of whipped cream—and then complaining about the pounds she would put on (while eating every bite). Donald kept an unobtrusive eye on Elizabeth; if someone took the time, eating ice cream could be absolutely erotic.

She took her time. Oh, God, would he have _great_ dreams tonight.

"Go. Get ready. I'll clean up, you're going to be late," Dr. Stewart waved his hands and began to collect things from the table.

"Don't have to tell me twice," Elizabeth laughed, leaping from the table. "Come on—Den, you and Gene have something you can loan, right?"

"Please. I have a ton of garb," Denny said with a laugh. "C'm'on, Scotland, let's go."

"When will you be home?" his father yelled as they pelted up the stairs.

Various voices called back: "Midnight!" "Eleven?" "Two, but maybe—" "FOUR!" "Cleanup til three, at least—"

He shook his head at the confusion. "Don't wake the neighborhood when you come in."

Oooh, marvelous. No curfew. For that it would be worth whatever silly costume Dennys threw on him.

Actually, it wasn't bad. Dennys was only an inch or so taller, so he found a sort of waistcoat, a shirt, and breeches that fit reasonably well. Maddie approved the outfit, even though she called his loafers 'not period.' "But a lot of people don't wear period footgear," she said consolingly. Eddie, being several inches taller than Dennys, had to make do with something she called 'peasant garb' that was loose enough to cover his extra length. (Actually, it looked more comfortable than what Donald was wearing.)

"Bring your clothes along to change back," Dennys advised, tossing him a feathered hat. "Unless you want to go to A&W afterward looking like—"

"Pass," he said quickly. He plopped the hat on his head. "Well?"

"You'll fly," was Dennys' pronouncement. Donald hoped that was good.

"I've been to Medieval fêtes before," he said, walking out of the bedroom, "but I never—" He stopped dead in his tracks. "Whoa."

"Yeah, they clean up pretty good," Dennys joked. "Let's go."

Donald was silent all down the stairs and out the door, to the point that Elizabeth looked at him uncertainly as he helped her into the car. "Do I look all right?"

He climbed into the driver's seat and stared at her. "Ealasaid, you look bloody incredible."

"Well, these hoop skirts are a pain in the ass," she confided and he burst out laughing. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "But—you're sitting there with a what looks almost like a nun's headdress, covered from head to toe—" though the bodice of her gown did wonderful things for her bosom; playing fancy dress was turning into a very good idea. "You look so starched and formal, then you say, 'hoop skirts are a pain in the ass'—it's just so…"

"Well… the group is called Society for Creative _Anachronism_!"

"Fitting."

/ / /

As Maddie promised, she didn't make them go through more than one dance. But she and Dennys and Tish and Gene were obviously old hands at the game, dancing and whirling around the floor with ease, and Mandy and Eddie were emboldened to join new dances after watching and joining the group of learners in the corner.

"I never thought Eddie would be interested in something like this," Donald said in amazement.

"Well, that's because Mandy is," Elizabeth said reasonably.

"Milady, may I have this dance?"

"No," she laughed. "One I promised, one I danced. I'd rather sit here… with you."

"Now, how can I object to that?"

It was easier to sit with chairs made up like a loveseat, one facing left, one facing right; that way they could _almost_ snug up side by side. He didn't have to compete with her voluminous skirts and they could converse face to face. She smiled at some witticism of his and he gave her a brief kiss; it was easier to do other things face to face, too. But from Dennys' look of mild reproach as he swung by, Donald decided to keep things very proper. For the moment.

"So… do you attend USC?"

Elizabeth laughed. "God, no. CSU Northridge. Two things I've learned in my life: don't attend a college where your father works in any capacity."

"And number two…?"

"Check the textbooks before you take a class. If your prof is the author, read the book very carefully before you sign up, you might die of boredom."

"What is your major?"

"Would you believe me if I said phys ed?"

"No."

"Good. Promise you won't laugh?"

"Promise."

"Home ec." He grinned. "You promised!"

"I'm not laughing. I'm just thinking of last night—you swore you don't want to open a restaurant."

"I don't. I want to teach home ec and fine arts." She looked at him sternly. "Hey, if I can teach Tish how to sew her own garb, I can teach ninth grade girls how to thread a sewing machine and hem a pair of shorts."

"I have a feeling you could teach anyone how to do anything. You taught me how to chop broccoli and to keep artichokes from browning."

"Ah… but _you_ are the 'anyone' that I would gladly teach 'anything.'"

Anything? Oh, my.

"Are you having fun?" she asked.

"With you?" She giggled and he blushed slightly. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out quite correctly. Ah—yes, I am," he said politely. Other than enjoying her company, he was bored stiff.

"Really?" She looked at him in surprise. "I like making the costumes and I love the food, but this whole historical recreation thing leaves me cold. Well, I like things a _little_ more current, anyway. I like the Dickens group, and the Sherlockians. Just not crazy about the medieval music, if nothing else."

"Would you like to leave? It's probably too late to catch a film—"

"Oh, I'm sure there's a late showing of _some_thing, _some_where." She grinned. "Hey, it's Saturday night. We could walk around Hollywood, look at all the crazies, stop at CC Brown's for a hot fudge sundae—"

"Ealasaid, we just had one," he laughed.

"Well—okay, but we have to go there just to _go_ there. It's as Hollywood as Grauman's Chinese. We can just get an ice cream soda orsomething."

"Can you direct me there?"

"Of course," she said primly. "I'm the only one in the family with a sense of direction."

/ / /

"I don't know why we bothered changing."

"Other than the fact that I don't care to ride around in hoop skirts all night… why?"

Donald looked around at the crush of people. "Anything goes up here. We would have fit right in."

Elizabeth looked at the couple passing by and shook her head. "Good point."

Elizabeth had thrown her Instamatic into her purse and had taken several pictures at the dance. She sweet talked Donald into posing with her by some of the quintessential tourist stops: the Hollywood and Vine street sign, the courtyard at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, Schwab's Fountain, the Hollywood Wax Museum—even the Whiskey-a-go-go on Sunset Boulevard. If it made her happy, he was willing to go along with the plan.

As the evening slowly wore on, they found the anonymity of a crowd was vastly appealing. Nobody stared at them as they walked hand in hand down the sidewalk. Nobody raised an eyebrow when Donald slipped an arm about her shoulders, drawing her close and walking as one. Nobody said a word when they stopped in front of the wax museum, carefully stepping out of the way of traffic, kissing each other for ages. Nobody. In a sea of human beings, they were completely alone.

Elizabeth was disappointed that the crowd at CC Brown's was so large that they wouldn't be able to get a table until well past midnight. "But I _did_ get to see it," Donald consoled her.

"And you _did_ get a jar of CC's 'famous hot fudge sauce' to take home," she laughed.

"I shudder to think what Customs will do to it."

"Don't even go there." She hopped up and sat on the edge of a brick planter in front of a small bookstore. "So. We still have hours to go—no official curfew," she grinned. "Where to next…" It was a musing, not a question.

"You're the native guide."

"It's not too late for a movie…"

"It'll be midnight, soon—who is open this late?"

"Welcome to Hollywood. Actually, it'll be Culver City—the drive-in there does late-late shows on Friday and Saturday night."

Drive-in? Now _that_ had possibilities.

"I have no idea what they're showing—"

_Do I care what they're showing? No, don't think so._

"Are you game?"

"Mm-hmm." _In __more __ways __than __one._

They timed it perfectly; they were midway in the short line of cars waiting for the 12:30 show and the line of cars from the prior show was starting to creep out the driveway. "Jerry Lewis," he said noncommittally.

"I can ignore that as well as anything else," she muttered. Promising.

Eddie's description hadn't been far off. Donald was feeling like a prim Victorian uncle before the shorts and cartoons had finished. _Nobody_ was watching the movie. (Well, it _was_ Jerry Lewis.) He could actually see articles of clothing being flung from the back seat of one car into the front. _Does __Elizabeth __expect__…__?_

Well… she certainly wasn't aggressive. They were cuddled in the middle of the seat; it was easier to avoid the transmission hump than the steering wheel. Of course, he was accustomed to their positions being reversed back home—_but __it__'__s __fun __to __learn __new __things_, he thought with a grin. She was snuggled up against him, his arm around her waist, her fair cloak acting as a blanket. He was beginning to think quite fondly on the cloak. She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder, eyes shut. _She_ certainly wasn't paying attention to the movie.

"I love you, Ealasaid," he murmured.

She nuzzled the side of his neck, a gesture that warmed him all over. "I love you, Dòmhnall."

He sat back and looked at her in astonishment. Okay, her pronunciation hadn't been dead on, but she was close enough. "Where did you learn that?" he asked with a smile.

"The library." She flashed him a grin. "But I think I'll stick to Donald, it's a little easier."

"And it _is_ what I was christened." He chucked her chin until she was close enough to kiss. "But I appreciate the gesture, my love." He turned slightly so that she could cuddle into his arms a little more easily.

She let out a deep breath, leaning into him. "I like this."

"So do I." He stroked her bare arm slowly, gently.

"I feel so safe with you."

_Safe? Damn._

"But at the same time…" She glanced up at him then quickly away, a blush mounting her cheeks. "Well… you know."

"Mmmh… I'm not sure I _do_ know," he teased.

She flicked her eyes toward him and smiled slowly. "Shall I elaborate, my dear Donald?" she said with excessive formality.

"Oh, please do, dearest Ealasaid." He grinned as she leaned forward to kiss him, hard. "Please do."

* * *

><p>6<p> 


	7. Adagio

**Chapter Seven: Adagio**

_**Adagio:** A tempo having  
>slow movement;<br>restful, at ease._

* * *

><p><strong>September 12, 2009<strong>

"She's fine. The surgery went very well. She's in recovery at the moment." Looking up at Dr. Theodore Ackerman was necessary, but no easy feat. He bore a strong resemblance to Ichabod Crane: as skinny as a flagpole and just as tall, but with a genial smile that immediately put his patients at ease. Ducky wasn't sure if it was his nerves, Ted's post-surgery exhaustion or just his imagination, but the smile seemed a shade forced today.

"May I see her?" Tori's lines of worry aged her somewhat; as the time had dragged by, it had been harder and harder to fill the silence with amiable chatter.

"Of course, Mrs. Cameron. Mrs. Cameron?" She looked up from gathering her things. "Mrs. Hamilton designated you as her proxy—"

She nodded. "Yes—I'm hers, she's mine." Her relief at Dr. Ackerman's assurances of five seconds ago disappeared. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He looked from her to Ducky and back. "It's my understanding that Dr. Mallard is a friend of the family?"

In Ducky's opinion, that was stretching a description to the point of losing its elasticity, but Tori quickly nodded. "Yes—he's known my aunt for longer than I've been alive." Well, if you ignored a four-decade gap it was true.

"Would you feel comfortable if I were to discuss the case more in depth with Dr. Mallard? I have to ask only because he isn't associated with the hospital, doesn't have privileges here—"

"Oh, no, no, I'm fine with that. That's perfect, actually—I'm so scrambled right now, I don't know that I'll understand anything beyond 'Aunt Lizzie is fine.' And Dr. Mallard would know far better than I what questions to ask. So, please—_yes_," she finished intensely.

Ducky kept a practiced smile on his face, ignoring the tiny current of unease that had pricked the back of his neck. Of course he had no hospital privileges—he was a medical examiner, not a surgeon. What the hell was Ted doing, pulling him in on her case?

"Would you like to see her first?"

He smiled and patted her shoulder. "No, no my dear. You go in. I'll be there directly."

She hugged him briefly. "Thank you for staying. I think I would have lost my mind."

'My pleasure' certainly didn't fit. "You're very welcome." That was neutral enough.

Dr. Ackerman made a motion. "Nurse Dawes will take you to see your aunt. When she's awake, we'll move her back to her room, but you can sit with her in the meantime."

"Thank you." Tori gratefully followed the nurse who had checked on them several times during the past hours.

Ducky's smile lasted until Tori was out of sight, then dropped like a rock. "Why the subterfuge, Ted?"

He jerked his head in a 'come with me' wave. As they walked down the hall he casually asked, "Just how well do you know the family?"

"Not very. Elizabeth and I were—friends—many years ago. But I hadn't seen her for almost forty years until today."

"Damn."

He looked up sharply. "What's wrong?"

"You tell me." He said nothing more until they were in the x-ray viewing room outside the surgical suite. "She says she broke her arm falling off a stepstool?"

"Yes."

"You sure about that?"

Ducky gave him a steady look. "I was there."

Ackerman's face cleared somewhat. "Oh. Good." He ran his fingers across the switches, turning on the bank of viewers. "Your opinion, please."

Ducky stepped forward and peered at the first screen. "My opinion… you had your work cut out for you." He pointed. "Bone fragments… shards… must have been quite the jigsaw puzzle."

"It was."

"Prior fracture lines…" Even though the current breaks had occurred along the lines of the prior damage, there were still traces of the faint marks on the x-ray. "Bastard," he muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, no, not you, Ted." He managed a laugh, then sobered. "Elizabeth's ex-husband caused the original break."

"Mmmh. Yes. She said it happened about thirty, thirty-five years ago."

That sounded about right. "Yes. Apparently he was quite abusive."

Ted made a small 'huh' noise. "Oh, yeah." He pointed to the other views. "When I saw how badly her arm had fractured, I had them take other films in case there were other breaks we didn't know about. She wasn't medicated yet, but she was pretty fuzzy about what hurt and where."

"Any other damage?"

"No. But—" He tapped the next x-ray, twice, hard. "Broken clavicle here. And here. Two different occurrences, she said." Another hit on another x-ray. "Fractured right wrist." Another film. "Fractured jaw. Same time as one of the collarbone breaks, she said." Two more identifying hits. "Left; right. From the metacarpals to distal phalanges, just about every finger on each hand."

Ducky tried to divorce himself from what he was seeing. This wasn't Elizabeth. It was some unknown, anonymous patient.

"Multiple rib fractures. I stopped counting at a dozen. Not to mention external scar tissue—you okay?"

"No," he said shortly. "I am fighting a tremendous urge to be violently ill," he almost snapped. "If that bastard weren't dead, I'd want to kill him myself."

"You sure he's dead?"

"I didn't autopsy the body, if that's what you mean."

"No—where did you hear that he had died?"

"From Elizabeth's niece. From Tori. She said he died in prison. His name was Walter—Hamilton, I assume."

"Did she tell you when?"

He thought back to their conversation. "I didn't write down any dates," he said almost ruefully. "But I believe he died twenty years ago, maybe more? They were married ten years before that? Fifteen?"

Ted nodded. "That pretty much tallies with what Mrs. Hamilton said, and with the age of these fractures."

"Then why—"

He pointed to a last x-ray. "Spiral fracture of the _right_ radius and ulna. Very much like the original fracture on her left arm. But this one?" He stared at Ducky solemnly. "Within the last three years. Four at the most." He folded his arms. "Any idea who is beating this woman _now_ Dr. Mallard?"

Listening to the catalogue of damage done, he thought he was beyond shock. He was wrong. He stared at the x-ray; the age of the damage was undeniable. "I. Have. No. Idea." It took effort to get the words out. "Did she say anything? _Anything?_"

Dr. Ackerman let out a deep breath. "Yes. When I asked her about the prior injury on her left arm, she was quite forthcoming. Told me all about her ex. The _usual_ screaming match. The _usual_ beating." He almost spat out the word 'usual.' "That particular time, she tried to escape. He grabbed her arm, twisted, threw her—floor or wall, I don't know—" He shrugged. "You worked the ER before. You know the drill."

"Unfortunately… yes." _Oh, __Bobby __fell __out __of __the __tree__house__… __oh, __Suzy __fell __while __skating_. Spiral fractures were invariably caused by grabbing and twisting, causing a break that resembled the swirl of a barbershop pole. Or, in this case, breaks.

"That tallied with what I saw—the type of break, the time frame. So I asked, 'What about your _right_ arm, Mrs. Hamilton?' 'Oh, Walter broke that, too.' I pointed out that she had said he died many years ago. Again she said he was the cause. 'No; _this_ one was much more current. Perhaps three years ago?' And she works it through for a few minutes, then—bingo. 'Oh, my. I had forgotten. It was so awful, I tried to block it, I guess. Oh… it was a mugging. I stayed late one night, this young man—it was so sudden, he was grabbing my purse, it pulled my arm—'" Ted's tone was sardonic.

"A traumatic event _could_ be repressed—"

Ted threw his hands up in the air. "Yeah, Ducky, it _could_. But I've got to tell you, after all these years I'm pretty good at sifting out the bullshit. And that was prime manure. Right off the farm. There is no way grabbing a pocketbook caused _that_ kind of fracture." He smacked the x-ray again. "She's hiding something, covering up for someone. I don't know if she's got another abusive man in her life or what, but I don't like the idea of sending her home where it might happen again."

"Dealing with a domestic abuse situation is more difficult than child abuse," Ducky said slowly. Yes; focus on the problem, not the woman. Work the case. "With a child, hospital personnel can keep the child away from the parent or the abuser until police arrive. But if the victim is over 18, if she refuses help—?"

"That is why I called you in for a consult, Dr. Mallard," Ted said with a slightly ironic smile. "You're a friend of the family—well, the closest thing I've got," he amended when Ducky started to protest. "And you're as good a listener as you are a talker."

"Thank you, I guess."

"It was a compliment. Honest. Do want you do best. _Listen_. See if you can find out the truth. She was already shutting down on me, putting up defenses—if I can't get the truth from her, or you can't get at it, and I have no medical reason to keep her here… I'll have to release her. With her age and the complexity of the break, I can probably push it to Wednesday. I'm just worried that if something happens again, it'll be more permanent damage the next time. Like death."

Ducky grasped the edge of the table. _This __can__'__t __be __happening. __It __just __can__'__t __be._ He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall. "If I'm going to be your spy," he said dully, "you'd best fill me in on what you were supposedly bringing me in here to discuss." He took a deep breath and stood up. "I am not gifted at deception."

/ / /

So pale. So very, very pale.

He forced himself into clinical mode. Until she came out of the anesthesia, they had her on full monitors. Heart: fine. Good, strong sinus rhythm. Pulse rate, respiration… good. Pulse ox—98%, excellent sat rate. Ignoring the fact that she'd just come through over four hours of surgery, she was doing great.

Tori sat at her side, speaking softly. Like coma patients, those coming out of anesthesia had a gradual return of senses—hearing being first. So Tori was filling her in on pleasantries from the business: customer compliments, an idea for a cake competition, anything non-threatening to fill the void. He fingered the ID charm in his pocket, remembering when he'd first given it to her so many years ago. It should have been a wedding ring; it was supposed to be a wedding ring. He sighed. He wanted to hate Julia Stewart for what she had done… but he was too damn tired.

He jerked his head toward the monitor. What the hell…? Heart rate 78… now 95. Was she struggling against the aftereffects of the anesthesia? He stepped closer.

"—been here the whole time, Aunt Lizzie. He's so sweet. He's here, now, waiting with me—"

Great. Tori was talking about him, and at this rate she'd send her aunt back into surgery with a heart attack. He lightly grasped her shoulder; when she looked up, he shook his head. "I don't think she wants to hear that," he barely whispered.

She bit her lip and looked from him to her aunt and back, her face stricken. "I'm—"

He patted her shoulder again. Elizabeth was making soft noises of distress, coming out of her fog. In for a penny, in for a pound… "Elizabeth? Elizabeth, it's Donald. Can you hear me, dear?"

"Donald…"

He flicked a glance at the monitor; so far, so good. "Yes, dear. You need to wake up. You're in the hospital, you had a fall. The doctors took good care of you—"

"Where is she?"

He exchanged glances with Tori. "Your niece is right here—"

"Tish… Tish, where is she?"

Tori gave a small gasp.

"Tish… will be here later," he said soothingly, hating himself for the lie.

"Where is she?" She was fighting the drugs, blinking to clear her vision. "Tish, where is she, I want to see her…"

"She'll be here later," he repeated.

She stared at him, confused. "Donald…?"

He reached down to brush a damp lock of hair from her face. "Yes, dear."

She squeezed her eyes shut, then blinked several times. "Donald…? It's you?" When he nodded, she closed her eyes and settled back heavily into the pillow. "She said you'd come back," she murmured.

The recovery room nurse came over from the only other occupied bed. "Conscious?" she asked Ducky, having been introduced earlier and realizing she had an extra set of trained hands at the ready.

"Getting there."

"Mrs. Hamilton? Mrs. Hamilton?" She used the almost too cheerful tone one always associated with hospital nurses. "My name is Monica Crowley, Mrs. Hamilton. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Probably to shut her up, Elizabeth's eyes cracked open.

"There we go. Now, can you tell me what today's date is? Hmm?"

Not unless she had _really_ changed over the years.

"Maybe the month," Tori muttered. Nope; apparently she hadn't changed that much.

"September," Elizabeth managed. After a moment: "Saturday."

"Very good!" She went through a number of questions: Who is the President? What city and state are you in? Where were you born? Close to a dozen questions and Elizabeth managed to answer all of them correctly. "What is the license plate on your car?"

Elizabeth was far more coherent, now, and stared at her for a long moment, mouth open. "You have _got_ to be kidding," she finally said.

Nurse Crowley laughed. "That's the last question. I either get people who rattle it off faster than their home phone number or reactions like yours. Either way, it's my final test. You're ready to go back to your room, my dear, and at ten o'clock we have orders for chicken broth and apple juice."

"Yum." Elizabeth almost winced.

"Keep them where we put them, and you can look at real food in the morning. Well—close enough, anyway. And you can probably get rid of your hitchhiker, then, too." She tapped the IV rig.

"In that case—bring it on." Elizabeth sighed tiredly. "God, I'm so tired," she murmured.

"Mmh. Amazing how exhausting it is being asleep on an operating table." The nurse finished her notations and closed the chart. "Okay, we'll have her out of here in about ten minutes if you'd like to meet up in her room. Just need a couple of orderlies for transport."

"May I stay—"

Nurse Crowley shook her head. "Sorry, dear. Patient safety. Five East, room 510."

Tori leaned over and gave her aunt a quick kiss. "We'll meet you there. Don't dawdle," she teased.

Ducky reached over and brushed the back of his finger over her cheek. She had a bit more color; but while she didn't pull away from his touch, neither was she welcoming it. Another place, another time, he would have scooped her up, kissed her, begged her forgiveness, and held on for dear life. But this was here; this was now. He forced himself to be content with a small smile, and was grateful to see the faintest flicker at the corner of her lips.

He waited until he and Tori were in Elizabeth's room before handing over her wallet and envelope of jewelry; she already had enough to carry, but had politely brushed away his assistance. "They won't allow patients to wear any jewelry—it's for their own security." He pulled the bracelet from his pocket and set it on top of the wallet.

She nodded. "Yeah, I remember when I delivered Drew—I threw a royal fit when they took my wedding ring and put it in the safe. Afterward it made sense, but at the time—whoa, I was in full labor and I was not the most perceptive person on the floor."

He smiled. "I can understand. Not from personal experience, but the very occasional professional one."

"Why didn't you ever get married? Have children?" When he didn't answer, she dropped her gaze. "Ooh. Sorry. Didn't mean to be too personal."

"No, I… I hadn't really thought about it until now. It is… what it is, as Ziva so often says. But now… I suppose I was comparing the women who came later to your aunt, remembering those months we had together before her mother interfered… and found them wanting in comparison."

"Maybe… you can work back together again?" She laughed and shook her head. "Listen to me. I sound like my kids did after the divorce." Grateful for the change of topic, he was tempted to ask what had happened, but too polite to do so. Fortunately she had seen the question in his eyes and had no problem sharing. "We married way too young. I was a sophomore; he had just graduated and was working as a bank examiner. Long hours, lots of travel. So we weren't together enough to squabble—but enough to make three babies. After six, seven years he had enough seniority that he wasn't being shuttled off to Podunk, Idaho every other weekend, but I was putting in what felt like thousand hour weeks at Baxxter's, using my advertising degree… so we still weren't together much, but when we were all we seemed to do was find fault with one another. Between the three of us, someone was always with the kids—but it was rarely two of us at any time. And I think if we added up the hours, Lizzie would have had the highest number."

"I doubt she complained," he said with a smile.

"Far from it. She loved having them around, not just the b.s. 'oh, honey, I love watching the kids' but _really_ loved it. And I'm still grateful for it. But then Baxxter's got tired of hemorrhaging red ink—or, should I say, their creditors did—and they shut down almost overnight. It was… traumatic. I'd started working there in college. I was there as long as I'd been married. Longer. Lizzie offered me a spot at the store, she said it would help her out—I think it was as a salve to my wounded pride, nobody was hiring it seemed like. But now Sam and I were spending more hours together and all we did was fight. It never got physical," she said quickly. "But—it didn't have to." She shrugged. "But I guess kids always want to see their parents together, until they're old enough to see that it wouldn't be for the best. Hopefully they haven't made their own mistakes by that time."

"Hopefully."

"Annnnnd, here we are, Mrs. Hamilton, home safe and sound!" The orderly swung the bed through the doorway, its occupant gripping the side rail, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The charge nurse followed shortly, making sure nothing had become tangled or disengaged during transport. She patted Elizabeth's hand. "You're set for now, if you need anything—" She handed her a buzzer. "This is the most important cord: it's a buzzer to summon li'l ole me. Next most important: the TV remote. That's on your left." Elizabeth crossed her right hand over, fumbled around and picked up the corded box. "That's the one. Couple of cable channels, PBS and some broadcast. Don't hesitate to call for me. If I don't hear a peep out of you, we have clear liquid orders for ten o'clock."

"So I hear," Elizabeth murmured.

"Beats the chicken a la king—but don't tell the dietician I said that." She smiled at Tori and Ducky. "Visiting hours are over at nine, but if you're quiet, I'll stretch it until her food arrives."

"Thank you," Tori said gratefully. "Dr. Mallard, would you mind staying here just a bit? I want to check in with all the kids."

"My pleasure."

Tori leaned over and gave her aunt a kiss. "Be right back, I promise."

As soon as Tori left, Elizabeth struggled to a sitting position. "Here." Ducky quickly pushed the button on the frame, raising the top half of the bed.

"Where're my clothes?" she mumbled.

Clothes? "Your wallet is right here, and the envelope with your jewelry." He carefully didn't mention her bracelet. "Tori will take them home."

"Not my _wallet_." She sounded tired and irritated. "My _clothes_."

He peered in the closet and saw a large plastic bag with her name and room number written in marker. "Here."

"Good. Give 'em to me, I'm getting out of here."

He couldn't keep from laughing. "Elizabeth, you're barely half an hour out of surgery, you are _not_ going home."

"Oh, yeah?" She started to throw off the blanket, then almost fell back against the pillows. "Oh… yeah." Her eyes shut and she swallowed hard.

"Are you all right?"

"Once the room stops playing tilt-a-whirl."

"Uh-huh." He tried to fight back his amusement. "I think you should stay here a while."

"So do I."

He leaned on the bed rail, watching her. "Still get motion sick?"

"Sometimes." Her eyes were still closed.

He reached out and brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. "No more strawberries."

She furrowed her brow. "Those must have been good drugs 'cause I don't know what the heck you're talking about. Strawberries?"

"You used to use strawberry shampoo."

"And I thought _I_ remembered trivia," she said in mild confusion.

Smelled of strawberries, felt like threads of silk… softest skin, a scar on her back from a bad burn… a tendency to walk just a bit duck-toed (which he found ironic) when she was extremely tired… trivia to her; not to him. He drew the back of his finger down her cheek. "I'm sorry to hear about Tish."

She looked at him guardedly. "Thank you."

Her wariness threw him for a loop. "Tori told me her mother died quite some time ago, when she was just a child."

Same caution. "Yes."

"And she came to live with you and Walter?"

She seemed to draw into herself. "Yes."

He kept his tone gentle, non-confrontational. "I gather you weren't together very long."

"Long enough." She locked eyes with him.

He nodded. "Too long." He stroked her cheek again and lightly took her hand in his free one. "Tori told me what happened and—I saw your x-rays. Oh, Elizabeth, I am so sorry."

She lifted a corner of her mouth in an imitation of a smile. "Not a mistake I plan on repeating."

_Oh, __really? __Then __explain __your __broken __arm __from __three __years __ago._ "Good." He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand and her faint smile looked a little more genuine. "I know it's been a long time, Elizabeth," he said awkwardly. "But… there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"Tori… Tori said you stayed with her. The whole time." He nodded. "Thank you."

"I was glad to be here." He continued to rhythmically stroke his thumb over her skin. She was actually starting to relax under his touch a little bit; good. "Tori told me what your mother did," he said gently. Her hand withdrew from his. Damn. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry."

She stared up at him. "So am I."

She didn't pull away from his touch to her cheek. "If there is anything I can do for you… I'm here. Please—let me help." _At __least __until __you __run __away __to __California__…_

She managed a smile. "I'm sure Tori will need help with the dishes at the shop." My God, she was actually joking with him.

"I'd be delighted." Emboldened by her attitude, he lightly stroked her uninjured arm. She allowed the caress without objection. "She's a charming young woman. And she obviously loves you." _But __did __she __break __these __bones __under __my __hand?_

"She's my baby," she said sleepily. "Tish… gave her to me… But she's all grown up… it feels like yesterday I was driving her to Brownie meetings."

"Tish would be proud," he said almost automatically.

"Mmmh… Maybe it was Ro I was driving to Brownies." She frowned. "No, I drove Ro to skating."

"I've met your granddaughter, too." She looked at him sharply. "Rowena? She works here at the hospital."

She shook her head. "That's right. I forgot." She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "I'm so confused…"

"It's the anesthesia."

"What's my excuse the rest of the time?"

"Same one I have," he teased back. "Old age."

"Not so old…" she sighed and closed her eyes.

"Elizabeth?" he asked softly.

"Mmh?"

"How did you get hurt?"

She gave a slight laugh, eyes still closed. "You were there."

"No, not today…" He gently stroked her arm. "About three years ago, how did you hurt your arm? This arm?"

She quivered faintly under his hand. "I was mugged," she said flatly.

_Damn._ She was pulling away from him, literally and figuratively. "I'm so sorry." He was saying that a lot today. "Elizabeth… if you ever need any help, any… I won't let anyone hurt you."

She didn't say anything. _Marvelous. __Now __you__'__ve __pushed __her __father __away. _He sat in silence for a long time, wishing he could think of something to say.

"Where is my bracelet?" Her voice was the barest whisper.

"Right here." He reached over and picked it up from the table and slipped it into her hand. "They don't let patients wear jewelry." He gently closed her fingers over the bit of silver. "Otherwise… I'd put it back on your wrist where it belongs."

She caught her breath slightly; he thought he heard her say 'thank you' but he wasn't sure.

There was a quiet knock at the door and Tori stuck her head in. He nodded a 'come on in' movement toward the bed.

"I left a message for Den and Mad and Bronwyn, I guess they're out all day, all I've done is talk to the machine. Ro said she'd sneak in before she leaves at the end of her shift. And Drew said to knock off the break dancing."

"Scapegrace," Elizabeth muttered tiredly. "Tell him break dancing is completely out of fashion."

"You tell him. He's expecting a call in the morning."

"Well… I shall leave you two ladies for now. I shudder to think what the dogs have done in my absence."

"Dogs?" Elizabeth barely opened her eyes.

"Welsh Corgis. My mother's dogs, actually. I should probably find better homes for them; I'm not home nearly enough to be fair to them."

Tori held up a hand. "We have a cat. Sorry."

"I wouldn't do that to you. They're a bit temperamental."

"So's the cat," Elizabeth mumbled.

"Don't forget to give Tori your bracelet." He felt a wrench at his heart. "I'd hate for you to lose it."

"Never." She held up her hand and Tori gently took the bracelet from her grasp.

"Well, then—goodnight." After a moment's hesitation he gave Elizabeth a brief kiss to the back of her hand.

"Always so courtly." She was well on her way to sleep.

Tori handed him his tea mug from earlier. "For the drive home."

"Thank you."

She slipped a business card into his hand. It was from the store; on the back side were written her home and cell numbers. "I'll call tomorrow," he whispered.

"Thank you." She gave him a long hug. "Thank you so much."

Feeling as though he had adopted another surrogate granddaughter he gave her a kiss to the forehead and slipped from the door.

_And __what __did __that __net? __Nothing._ He punched the down arrow button and stared at it. _You __weren__'__t __precisely __a __spy __in __Paris, __you __certainly __aren__'__t __one __now._

He pored over the short visit as he walked to the car, stopping while unlocking the door. _No__… __I __**did **__learn __**some**__thing._ Even while coming out of anesthesia, Elizabeth was able to keep up the façade that she had been injured in a mugging, something any halfway competent second year med student could refute with one glance at her x-ray. The desire to protect whoever had hurt her was buried very deeply. _It__'__s __close __to __home. __It__'__s __family._ The very thought made him weak. He sat in the car for quite some time before turning over the engine.

/ / /

The house was eerily silent. He'd become accustomed to not calling out, 'Mother! I'm home!' to not hearing her querulous comments and to not listening to the trials and tribulations of her string of caregivers. But usually there was a swirl of gold and white fur yipping and yapping from behind the door as he came up the walk.

As he pushed open the door, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

_Ducky: I didn't know how long you'd be at the hospital but it was already close to dinner and I figured you wouldn't be home for a while and since you gave me a key for emergencies I figured this was close enough and I knew the dogs were alone so I came over to keep them company for a little while I gave them all a nice long walk and they each had puppy treats and got fresh water and canned food you still give them each half a can at night and fill up the kibble bowl right? Hope so. Hugs, Abby_

She wrote just as she spoke: breathlessly.

He peered into the sitting room as he passed; all four dogs were asleep on various pieces of furniture, well fed and sleeping off what had probably been overindulgence on Abby's part. She had a soft spot for the dogs and they were pros at giving her the he-doesn't-love-us-he-never-feeds-us poor, pathetic puppy eyes. She fell for it every time.

Tyson broke off in mid-snore and raised his head, looking at Ducky as if to say, 'Where the hell have you been?' He flopped his head back to the chair and went back to sleep.

Ducky laughed softly and shook his head. _Mighty __protector __of __hearth __and __home__… __right._ He hung up his coat and hat, stopped by the kitchen to rinse out the mug Tori had given him (noting by the contents of the bowls that yes, the dogs had definitely played Abby for a sucker once again) and went into the library to relax a bit before going to bed.

Instead of his usual Scotch and a mystery, he poured a drink and then pulled an old photo album from the bookshelf. The first page was one of his favorite photos: he was no more than four, standing on a stepstool next to Grandmother Kittridge. Glasses perched on the end of her hawk-like nose, she was patiently explaining the intricacies of making scones. She wore a pretty flowered shirtwaist dress and low-heeled pumps and looked as calm and cool as an autumn afternoon. Her grandson, on the other hand, was covered in flour and lumps of dough and resembled a misshapen snowman. He rolled his eyes; _why __she __didn__'__t __skin __me __alive__…_

He knew perfectly well why she hadn't. He was the only grandchild on both sides of the family; if he hadn't been spoiled rotten, it was only because of his mother's intervention. But he had been a bit indulged and loved beyond measure. It had been almost a quarter of a century since she had passed on but he still missed her dreadfully.

He carefully turned the pages to the back of the book. A manila envelope was taped to the back cover, both the envelope and the tape brittle with age. After talking to Elizabeth's mother, hurt and rage had overcome him; he had thrown every photo, every memento into the bin and walked away from them. When he had returned from Viet Nam three years later, Grandmother Kittridge had handed him the envelope with a sad, wise smile. "Trust an old woman, Donnie. Some day these will mean something to you. Someday you will be glad to have them." She had seen him throw away things he had pored over and shared with her every night for months and had gone behind his back to rescue them. He trusted her judgment; it took until her death for him to open the envelope and peek at the photographs… then quickly shut it and hide it away for another decade. The next time the pain was more melancholia than hurt; _should __I __try __to __find __her?__Where __would __I __look?_ And she had been in the same damn town…

He effortlessly pulled the envelope from the cover, tatters of tape falling away. He let the squares and rectangles of two months fall onto the coffee table as he sipped his drink. _San __Francisco__… __Hollywood __Boulevard__…_ He smiled. A picture of Elizabeth, her face being painted with a flower (an already completed dove on her other cheek). She had insisted that turnabout was fair play; the next photo showed him with a peace symbol being applied to his right cheek. A ticket stub—The Moody Blues at The Hollywood Bowl. God, what a magical night that had been. The late spring night, the lights of the stage… _But __in __the __gray __of __the __morning, __My __mind __becomes __confused, __Between __the __dead __and __the __sleeping, __And __the __road __that __I __must __choose._

"I'm looking for someone to change my life… I'm looking for a miracle in my life..." he half-sang softly. He set aside the ticket, resisting the temptation to pull out an album and put it on the turntable. A long thin photo fell to the floor and he picked it up, turning it over as he did. A strip of pictures from the photo booth at Santa Monica Pier—making faces, goofing around, a kiss for the last frame—

_Oh, God._ If he closed his eyes he could still taste the sweetness of her lips after all this time. He knew just how it felt to hold her, feel her heart beating against his chest…

_Any idea who is beating this woman **now** Dr. Mallard?_

Alone in the dark, he quietly wept.

* * *

><p>7<p> 


	8. Allegro Modulation

**Chapter Eight: Allegro Modulation**

_**Allegro:** cheerful or brisk._  
><em><strong>Modulation: <strong>To shift to another key_

* * *

><p><strong>May 17, 1969<strong>

Several trips to and from the Stewart house had fairly cemented the route in Donald's memory. By the end of his second week in California, he felt he could drive it in his sleep. Of course, trying to negotiate streets made for left-hand-drive vehicles and keep his wits about drivers who were very, very good and very, very fast kept him quite awake.

As he waited his chance to turn at the light, he caught sight of a familiar car toward his left. Gene's bright purple Firebird was… noticeable, to say the least. He tooted the horn and waved. Tish responded by leaning out the passenger window, yelling over traffic and pointing. He knew it was useless to call back; if he couldn't hear her, she certainly couldn't hear him. From her gestures he gathered that she wanted him to pull into the parking area of the petrol station. He swung wide on the turn and pulled off to the side then watched the light change, Gene fly down the street, make a neat U-turn and come back.

"Cosmic timing," Tish laughed when they pulled up.

"Small universe."

"Dad was called in for a consult at Little Company of Mary. He walked over to pick up his car." Her eyes danced with mirth. "He is so pissed he can't talk straight. They haven't even started the repairs."

"Oh, my."

"Yeah, he finished chewing them out, called the insurance company and gave them an earful, now he needs a ride to pick up a new rental."

"Why does he need a second hire car? Does he plan to ride them double chariot style?"

"Could be interesting. No, the repair shop called on Wednesday and said the car would definitely be ready this morning—so he dropped off his rental last night."

"Ah. Just making the situation even more intolerable."

"You got it."

"I'd be happy to go fetch him," he offered.

She gave him a speculative look, plainly _currying __favor __with __your __girlfriend__'__s __dad?_ Well… he couldn't deny that was part of it. "Nah—but thanks. He has a couple of errands, and I need to pick up my car, too. Just a tune-up, thank God, but hopefully it won't act like a bucking bronco at stoplights any more."

"Spark plugs and wires?"

She looked at him in astonishment. "Yeah, among other things. You work on cars?"

"A little."

"Man, I should have asked before I took it in. Denny is the one guy I ever knew who didn't like to mess around under the hood." She jerked her head toward Gene. "He's the second."

"I thought you built robots and electronic puppets and things like that."

"Sure do," Gene said affably. "Gears and wires and servos, fine. Car engines? Forget it. I can't tell you what the carburetor even looks like."

"So—we'll be back in a couple of hours, but Den and Mad and Biz are there. Just go around to the patio door, you don't need to knock."

"I'd hate to be rude—"

"You won't be." She glanced at her wristwatch. "As a matter of fact, if you hurry—it should be entertaining."

"Ent—" Gene started the engine and began to pull away. "Enter—Tish, what do you—"

_Entertaining?_

If it were in regard to anyone but Elizabeth, that would have sounded truly ominous.

_Entertaining. Hmm._

He drove up the hill, wending his way to the house. Feeling only slightly like a burglar, he entered the side gate and made his way to the pool area. Robbie met him at the patio, capering about his feet. "Hey there, ol' boy," he murmured, ruffling the dog's mane. "Where's Elizabeth?"

A burst of feminine laughter made him glance up; "No, no, try it again!" he heard Maddie's voice from a distance. It sounded like they were in the library. Slipping inside and setting his swimming trunks on the couch, he followed his instincts through the entertainment room.

The door to the library was half open. He peered through the doorway. Elizabeth and Madalena were in the middle of the room, working through what seemed to be a dance routine. Elizabeth? Dancing? He must be hallucinating. Dennys sat at the piano, holding what Donald recognized as an Irish drum, a bodhran, and looking amused.

"Okay… step, step, step, hand-on-hip, wag finger—" Elizabeth directed. She and Madalena walked the steps and stopped. "Oh, yeah, that works better. Let's try it from the start."

"Give us an A chord, sweetie," Madalena requested. Dennys complied; his sister and girlfriend leaned close and hummed to find their pitches. Donald grinned; he was finally going to hear Elizabeth sing, even if she wasn't playing the guitar. Dennys swung off the bench and stood a couple of feet from Maddie and Elizabeth; he started twirling the small stick against the drum head and set the rhythm to a quick pace and the girls launched into an a cappella song.

"_There once was a handsome lad, all from the town of Kimmin  
><em>_He was so proud and boastful of his prowess with the women  
><em>_Well the tales were told that made him out to be a Romeo  
><em>_But he'd have his way with a lass whether she would or no!"_

Their voices melded very nicely, but he wasn't sure he liked the song. The lyrics already made him a little uncomfortable.

Elizabeth took the lead on the song, Madalena "acting" the part and singing harmony.

"_One day young Mary Stockwell did catch this Johnny's eye  
><em>_And the next thing that you know he had his hand upon her thigh  
><em>_Young Mary, hearing of the tales did push his hand away  
><em>_And her proud and foolish gesture, did cause this lad to say—"_

Dennys joined in, taking the part of "Johnny."

"_Oh, run like the devil Mary, run  
><em>_Run like the devil Mary, run  
><em>_For I will catch you quick  
><em>_And we will have some fun  
><em>_For the time's run out on your virtue!"_

What in the name of all that was holy _was_ this song? Donald was absolutely appalled. But it was like a train wreck—he just couldn't turn away.

The girls continued their part, Elizabeth as lead, Madalena providing harmony and primary performance, Dennys adding a few movements around his drumming.

"_Mary took off like a shot, went running through the town  
><em>_Johnny was upon her heels to bring that gal to ground  
><em>_But Mary's track did take her speeding through the flour mill  
><em>_And she pushed a bag in Johnny's way so over him it spilled._

_Well Johnny came out of the mill looking like a great white mountain  
><em>_And his eyes, being full of dust, fell right into the fountain  
><em>_At the sight of this the townsfolk laughed and Mary shrieked with glee  
><em>_And Johnny got back to his feet shoutin' "Mary I'll get ye!"_

Dennys took the end of the last line with gusto and launched into a repeat of his chorus. Donald nodded; okay, this was improving. It was turning into a comedy—so far.

"_Mary she stuck out her tongue and started off once more  
><em>_But Johnny grabbed her skirt so fast that a good piece of it tore  
><em>_His passion infused with his rage, it nearly made him blind  
><em>_And he took off so intent on Mary's now exposed behind."_

Madalena wiggled her hips and kicked up her heels. Donald clamped a hand over his mouth to stop a snort of laughter.

"_Johnny ran 'neath a laundry line, his head he had to duck  
><em>_But flour and water soon make paste and to his back now stuck  
><em>_A fine young ladies handkerchief of lovely bright red silk  
><em>_While Mary ran into the barn where the town's cows all did milk."_

Definitely a comedy. Donald barely suppressed his chuckles as Dennys belted out another chorus.

"_Mary ran down the row of stalls, looking for safe cover  
><em>_When upon her fell the shadow of her maddened would-be lover  
><em>"_Ah-hah! Now I have cornered you and no more tricks you'll pull!"  
><em>_When Mary opened the stall door of the dairy farmers' bull._

_Well Mary hid behind the door, the bull saw Johnny only  
><em>_And it crashed out of that stall door, being mad—"_

"_Or __maybe __lonely_," Madalena sang suggestively. Donald grabbed his side; it was starting to ache from censoring his laughter.

"_Johnny he turned tail and ran and that handkerchief so red  
><em>_Went flapping out behind him as across the fields he sped!"_

The girls stepped forward together and placed their outside hands on their hips.

"_Oh run like the devil, Johnny, run  
><em>_Run like the devil, Johnny, run  
><em>_For I have banked your prowess  
><em>_And your reputation's done  
><em>_And I'll be the keeper of my virtue."_

Elizabeth changed the pronouns and they waggled their fingers at "Johnny" and finished with a flourish. "Not bad, not bad," Madalena pronounced. The chime of the doorbell interrupted her and Elizabeth looked at the clock and gasped.

"Oh, my gosh, it's that late!" she cried as she turned around. Seeing Donald in the doorway, she stopped. "Donald—I, ah—I didn't know you were there."

"I'm sorry. Tish told me to come on in—that, that must be Eddie and Amanda," he added, waving toward the front of the house, finally able to let loose a few chortles.

"I'll get the door," Dennys murmured, slipping from the room.

"I'll come with you," Madalena added with strained brightness. Subtle.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I shouldn't have been listening."

She shook her head, but was silent for a long moment. "No. No, it's okay. Maddie and I, we do a sort of comedy Celtic folk thing. We call ourselves the Bawdy Barmaids."

"Bawdy?" he echoed.

"Yeah, well… I've got this red wig, so we look more alike, and the costumes…" She looked at him hesitantly. "It's all just in fun. Please don't be angry."

"Angry?" He stepped over and put his arms around her. "Ealasaid, why would I be angry?"

She stared at his chest and gave a small shrug. "I don't know," she mumbled. "I just… we've been doing it for a while, I never thought how it might look to… someone…"

"Well… at first the lyrics were a little disturbing. But then it turned out to be so funny—and the two of you sing wonderfully together. Dennys, too," he quickly amended.

"You really aren't angry?"

She actually looked afraid—he didn't know if he was more stunned, hurt… or angry himself. Where had she learned to be so fearful of someone's displeasure? She had seemed so confidant, so self-assured while she sang… He mentally shook his head. Where else would she learn to be afraid? Her mother.

"Not angry." He managed a smile. "Surprised. But—I can appreciate a good farce with the best of them."

She smiled up at him and sighed. "I'm so glad. I just suddenly realized how it might seem to someone from a more… conservative background," she said hesitantly.

He grinned. "You need to see some of the plays we have running in London."

She grinned in return. "I hope to." She surprised him by reaching up to give him a quick kiss.

"So… do I get to hear you play the guitar next?"

"Soon. I promise."

He pulled her closer. "Another?" he hinted. She glanced toward the door, but willingly gave him another kiss, deep and rich with promise. It took tremendous effort not to scoop her up and land them both on the couch, touching and kissing her more intimately. "I love you. More than life itself."

"You _are_ my life."

/ / /

Dr. Stewart was very tolerant of Donald seeing Elizabeth on an increasingly frequent basis. Donald often jaunted down in the middle of the week just to take her out for a quick burger (or what the Americans called fish and chips), a forty-five minute drive each direction to spend only and hour or two with her—a worthwhile tradeoff in his book. Between visits they spent hours on the telephone, Donald feeding in a pocketful of dimes and nickels until the lateness of the hour or poverty forced them to stop talking. He often looked at them with a hint of amusement, perhaps thinking back to when he was a young courtin' man… but he seemed to accept the situation in any event.

_Mrs_. Stewart was another matter. If pressed, Donald would honestly admit he didn't care for her, after seeing how she treated her children, had total disregard for her husband and his work, and was careless and borderline rude to those visiting her home. But he was reared to be polite, and kept his feelings to himself, always speaking to her with civility and deference. Why she had taken him into such dislike was a mystery, but she had. He was careful not to be too affectionate to Elizabeth when the others were around, and was decorous to the point of absurdity when her mother was nearby. It didn't matter. She didn't like Donald, didn't approve of him seeing her daughter, and didn't care who knew. She often called him "Daniel" instead of Donald (though she mixed up Maddie and Gene's names, too, so that might mean nothing); as she waltzed her way through the contents of the bar she frequently progressed from dirty looks to outright daggers. No, she was far from being a champion of Donald Mallard.

He looked at the figure in the patio doorway and smiled politely. No response (not even an unkind look, which was promising; maybe she was warming toward him?). He turned back to the pool, where most of the group cavorted in one end and Elizabeth and Mandy swam long laps to see who could finish five rotations first. Elizabeth won handily. "I grew up swimming," she panted when Mandy congratulated her. "You grew up in the snow."

"Yeah, next time I challenge you to downhill skiing!"

Elizabeth swam over to the edge. "Yeah, right. Stand at the top of the hill with waxed wood on my feet and try _not_ to go down a slippery hill of ice and snow. Pass. I like my bones where they are!"

"Chicken!"

"Bwak-bwak-bwak!" she called back. "You bet!"

Oh, there weren't enough hours in the day, days in the week… He squatted closer to her. "Do you think your father would object to us going out to a movie after dinner? Or would he think we're seeing too much of each other?"

"No, no, Dad likes you, he won't…" she trailed off.

Ah. But the dragon lady might. "It seemed okay with her last weekend, when we all went out to that Renaissance dance… Maybe if it's all eight of us? Or maybe six, or even just four?"

She smiled up at him. "I'm in love with a genius."

"Say it again."

"You're a genius."

"No, no… the first part."

"I'm in love…" She stared into his eyes, her look gentle. 'With you,' she mouthed. "Hey, Denny, Gene," she called, motioning them over. "Donald has a great idea." She filled them in, and both young men agreed. "Mandy!" she called. When Amanda looked up, she continued. "We're all talking about hitting the flicks after dinner—you and Eddie want to come along?"

"Can't speak for him, but, sure—I'm up for it." She held up her hands. "So long as it isn't that lousy remake of _The __Wax __Museum_."

"No horror movies," Elizabeth agreed as her brother and Gene returned to Mandy and their game, the three playing an odd version of water volleyball.

"Ah, darn," Donald teased in a low voice. "I was looking forward to you yelping in fear and taking shelter in my arms."

"Well… when you put it that way," she grinned. "We'll just say… no _bad_ horror movies."

"Agreed."

She grabbed hold of the edge of the pool; he stood up and stepped back, giving her room to exit. She pushed down, swung a leg up hoisted herself out. Donald swallowed hard; the play of muscle against muscle did wonderful things to her bosom, even nicer than the Renaissance costume had been. He indulged in a moment of fantasy, imagining how sweet it would be to hold her, feel those pale amber breasts pressed, naked, against his chest, to caress them, kiss them… He realized he was staring, unseeing, into her eyes. She had just a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "What are you thinking?" she whispered.

Finding the nearest bed, making love to her for the rest of the night, for the rest of his life… Like hell he was going to answer honestly.

She smiled. "Are you thinking… what… I'm thinking?"

"Oh, God, I hope so." The words blurted out before he had a chance to stop them.

"Mmh." Her eyes twinkled up at him. "I promise not to slap a red kerchief on your rear… Johnny."

"Ealasaid!" He gave her a wounded look. "I would never—"

"I know you wouldn't." She glanced toward the house; apparently her mother had gone back inside, because she gave him a kiss. "There isn't a woman in the world who would spurn your advances." She gave him a measured look. "And I'll knock each and every one on their collective asses if they so much as look your way." He grinned in response. "I'm sure we can find a nice drive-in with a good double feature… worthy of being ignored." With a teasing wink she reached past him, grabbed her towel and tripped off toward the house.

Donald looked down at the tap on his ankle. Dennys stared up from the water. "Hey, Don. Break her heart… and I'll kill ya." With a friendly smile, he kicked off from the wall, swimming rapidly toward the deep end of the pool.

Donald was pretty sure he wasn't joking.

/ / /

"I'm getting spoiled," Donald said with a contented sigh.

"Well, I told you when you first arrived, this is your home away from home," Dr. Stewart beamed.

"Home isn't like this. My mother does _not_ make fried chicken that is remotely like this." Not even close. "You're the best cook I've ever met, Elizabeth."

Bad move. He didn't know if it was because he was persona non grata and was complimenting Elizabeth or because he was complimenting her on something that held no interest for her mother but her mouth turned down in a particularly ugly frown.

"I'm glad Elizabeth got the cooking gene," her sister put in quickly. "If we had to rely on my cooking…" she shuddered expressively.

Gene laughed. "No problem, honey. I live on take out already, I'm happy to do it after we get married, too."

Julia opened her mouth to speak; from the set of her jaw, Donald had a feeling it wasn't going to be overly pleasant. "Do you have a date set?" he got out swiftly before she had a chance to draw breath.

"July 12." Tish looked sad. "I'm really sorry it's after you guys leave." She looked—and sounded—utterly sincere. "But it was the only day we could—book the Yacht Club," she finished with a brittle smile. Donald was willing to bet who had demanded they choose the Yacht Club.

"You have our felicitations and congratulations, regardless," he said smoothly. His glance took in Madalena, sitting to Tish's right.

Maddie shook her head. "We're still discussing dates," she said genially. He didn't press; Den's problems made for a roller coaster relationship. Maddie knew what she was in for, but it was still difficult.

"The two of you are already family," Dr. Stewart said expansively, including Gene in his salute. There was an uncomfortable clink of ice against glass as his wife set her drink down on the table. "So—what movie are you kids going to see?"

"Movie?" Julia hadn't quite reached the point of slurring her words, but she was definitely well on the way to getting smashed.

"Yes, they're all flying the coop after dinner. I already said it was all right," he said firmly.

"But—"

"It's Saturday night, it's what young people do on a Saturday night… Julia," he said with a slight edge to his voice. There was an almost audible click as she shut her mouth. "Now… I believe I saw something that vaguely looked like a cake when I wandered through the kitchen…" he grinned at Elizabeth.

"Oh, Daddy, you know there's always dessert," she teased back. "Let me get the dinner dishes in the washer—"

"I'll help," came three separate voices. Tish and Maddie exchanged a look. "Never argue when a man volunteers to do housework," Tish said wisely, waving from Donald to the kitchen doorway.

Gene caught the eye of his soon-to-be brother-in-law. "Oooh. I think that was meant for us. We'd better help." Eddie quickly joined with them, carrying plates and silverware into the kitchen.

"I like this," Amanda said with a wicked grin. "Dating two weeks and he's already got the right idea." Eddie looked only slightly embarrassed.

He even volunteered to stay in the kitchen and help but Donald chased him away. "There's only one dishwasher to load," he said pragmatically. "Elizabeth and I have it covered." After the swinging door had stilled, he turned to her. "Alone at last," he stage whispered.

"Almost." Elizabeth pushed Robbie aside to get closer. "I never figured you for the domestic sort."

"Oh, there are many things about me that remain to be seen." He slipped one hand about her waist, the other tangling in her damp hair to hold her head. She wrapped her arms about him, pressing against him. What was that song…? _Kisses __sweeter __than __wine?_ He lightly brushed his tongue against her lips, teasing. Oh, yeah; much sweeter. He barely touched the roof of her mouth, enjoying her soft gasp of pleasure. He couldn't hold back a faint groan as she imitated his movements, exploring him with a growing confidence. "No…" he said softly when she pulled away.

"They're going to come looking for that damned cake," she said with regret.

True enough. From the other room came a laugh, then: "Hey, how are you kids making out in there?"

They stared at one another for a long moment, then Elizabeth, giggling, turned toward the counter. "Just fine, Dad!" She pointed to the dishes.

"Need help?"

"No!" She grabbed the chocolate-frosted angel food cake. "I'm coming!" She backed through the door.

Donald couldn't help but sigh; _coming? No—not yet…_ but if they hadn't been interrupted…! He scraped the plates and quickly loaded them into the automatic dishwasher. There are stories you remember to tell your children… and stories you remember and make darn sure nobody tells your children. This was definitely one of the latter.

Elizabeth made two more trips for dessert plates and forks, then one last stop to help him finish loading the dishwasher. She tossed in soap, locked it and started the cycle; "We'll put the dessert things with the breakfast dishes." Before they left the kitchen, she pulled him to her for one last, deep, searing kiss that left them both breathless. "Double feature," she promised.

He nodded. "Double feature. Definitely."

/ / /

After lounging on the floor with the newspaper, they ended up with four separate itineraries. Gene and Tish decided to forgo films for the ice skating rink, Amanda and Eddie planned on a comedy double feature at a nearby drive-in, Maddie and Dennys wanted to see "Easy Rider"—and when Donald saw Elizabeth's eyes light up over the Sherlock Holmes triple (not double) feature at a revival house in Santa Monica, he knew where they were heading. "Can you direct me?"

She nodded, even as the other California natives (plus Amanda) chorused, "You can't miss it."

After saying good nights to Dr. Stewart (Mrs. Stewart having 'retired' right after dessert), they headed for the door. Donald was stopped in mid-motion of helping Elizabeth on with her cloak by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to find Dr. Stewart looking at him with a bemused smile. "If you two have plans for this week—the car will still be in the shop. Lizzie still won't be able to drive up to my office."

"Oh—ah, thank you, sir. We'll see what happens during the week."

The hand remained on his shoulder. It was a very _firm_ hand.

Somehow, it was more of a threat than Denny's promise of bodily harm.

/ / /

The Nuart was a state-of-the-art building. The entire building was crisp and clean, the sound system crystal clear, the screens still a bright white. The seats were soft and plush—and had the added bonus of armrests that swung up and out of the way, making it that much easier to cuddle with your date. The owners had thought of everything.

Including air conditioning set to artic temperatures. "That's why I brought my cloak," Elizabeth murmured as they climbed to the top of the balcony section.

"Aah. You knew we were going to be turned into human ices?" He was wishing they'd offered hot tea instead of cold sodas.

"Not that bad…" She followed him to the center of the top row. "But the first time we came here, I froze my butt off."

He turned back to cast an admiring glance over the allegedly frozen part of her anatomy and chuckled. "Looks fine to me."

She swatted his arm. "Donald!" She laughed. "I can't believe you said that!"

He set their drinks a safe distance away. "Ah…" He slipped his arms around her waist, under her cloak. "I just appreciate the beautiful things in life." One hand moved down to lightly caress the object in question, making her wriggle.

"Donald…" There was a different tease in her voice. She leaned closer to his ear. "Not while the lights are still up."

"Mmh. Good point." He held her cloak while she settled into a seat and almost ceremoniously moved the armrest out of the way and then took his own seat, drawing the cloak over them like a stadium blanket. "Comfortable?"

"Almost." She twisted about until she was snug up against him, head on his shoulder. "Much better."

"I agree." While the lights were still on he contented himself with occasional light kisses and whispered endearments. But when the illumination dropped before an audience of only fifty or so he quickly moved his caresses from casual to intense. Slow and sweet at first, they shared deep, languid kisses, enjoying their mutual explorations. It was just as delightful to be the recipient of her gentle search as it was to probe her warm lips. He slowly trailed kisses down her throat, enjoying the wildly pounding pulse beneath his touch. He trailed his tongue back up the path, relishing her tiny gasp of "_oh!__"_ then captured her mouth, lightly sucking on her tongue as she deepened the kiss.

She was stroking his chest, slowly, firmly, then letting her hand trail up to rest on his shoulder, almost massaging in rhythm with their kisses. Emboldened, he let his hand slip up and gently cup her breast, feeling the heat of her skin through the almost translucent fabric. She gasped slightly, but didn't pull away; if anything, after a moment, she leaned into his caress.

"Oh, yes," he murmured. Even through the blouse and bra he could feel her nipple stiffening, growing rock hard at his touch. He moved his hand down, sliding it under the hem of the filmy gauze. "Oh… your skin is so soft…" Her abdomen was quivering under his fingers.

"Mmh…" It was a simple sound of pleasure more than a noise of agreement, but turned into a shuddering intake of breath as he moved his hand back up to recapture her breast, fingers stroking her skin. "Oh… Donald…"

She was just a shade hesitant, but plainly enjoying his attentions. He found himself wondering that age-old question that was like a bucket of cold water: _is she a virgin?_

He was willing to bet his inheritance that her sister wasn't. But Elizabeth… hmm. And it was a dreadfully awkward question to ask.

He suddenly found himself glad they had skipped the drive-in. There was only so far one could go in an indoor theatre (in theory, anyway). The wide bench seats and privacy in the automobile would have been far too tempting.

As it was, he had both hands behind her, toying with the catch on her brassiere; she looked up at him, eyes glittering in the dark, and nodded silently. He slipped the tiny hooks free and quickly moved a hand forward to cradle a sweet, firm breast, thumb lightly brushing over a pebbled nipple. He could feel her moan softly beneath his lips, felt his own body respond to her arousal.

As it was, she had become curious on her own. She tweaked open first one button, then another, until his shirt lay completely open. She lightly raked her fingernails over the ribbing of his undershirt, making him shiver with pleasure. She moved to pull the fabric from his slacks; when she hesitated, he whispered, "Oh, yes—please," and she tugged the fabric free, sliding her hand up, combing through the hair and lightly toying with the equally stiff nipples on his chest.

As it was, neither of them noticed until they left hours later that they had misread the listing and had just sat through a Billy Wilder night of _Some Like it Hot, Love in the Afternoon _and _Sabrina._

* * *

><p>8<p> 


	9. Counterpoint in D Minor

**Chapter Nine: Counterpoint in D Minor**

_**Counterpoint:** Two  
>or three melodic lines<br>played at the same time.  
><em>_**Minor:** One of the two  
>modes of the tonal system.<br>The minor mode can be  
>identified by the dark,<br>melancholic mood._

* * *

><p><strong>May 24, 1969<strong>

After their trip to the Nuart, Donald spent that Sunday poring over the mimeographed sheets they had first received, but to no avail. He didn't want to make a blind pick from the telephone directory, but was unsure whom to ask. Sassy, of course, would know the answer—but the chances of her keeping quiet were pretty slim. It took him most of the week to be struck by brilliance: Mrs. Kelley.

She was not only more than willing to keep their discussion private, she had a brother-in-law 'in the business' who would do almost anything for his wife's favorite sister. Donald picked her up early Saturday morning, drove them to Sherman Oaks, dithered for an hour—then made a decision (which had to be changed, once he realized 'family discount' meant 'wholesale' and not just ten or fifteen percent off). Finally satisfied, he floated back to the car, clutching a receipt that promised delivery in one week.

Mrs. Kelley was amused—but affectionately so. "I've seen you boys come and go all this year," she said with a laugh. "But never a hint of romance. Now, both of you—" she shook her head. She waved aside his move to alight, opening her own car door. "I think it's utterly charming." She slammed the door and leaned in the open window. "Drive carefully, now."

He couldn't help but grin. "I will, Mrs. Kelley. I don't know how I can repay—"

She gave him a saucy smile. "Name your firstborn after me."

/ / /

Later that afternoon, when he pulled up to the house on Starstone, he was mildly surprised to see Tish's fiancé leaning against the back of his car, which neatly blocked the driveway entrance. Donald pulled past him, parked and walked back. "Hullo, Gene… is there a problem?" Amanda's little car passed them and parked beyond Donald's rental.

Gene sighed. "We're, ah, not eating in. Tish'll be back in a sec."

"Is everything all right?"

The young man shook his head. "Not by a long shot. Den and Mad already bailed—they're probably halfway to Mexico by now." At Donald's startled look, he shrugged. "Hey, spending money in TJ beats listening to your mom and dad tear the house down."

Donald's heart sank. He knew the Stewart marriage wasn't the happiest he'd run into, but he didn't realize it was that bad. He heard the front door open—

"And another thing—" Mrs. Stewart's voice was painfully shrill.

"Goddammit, Julia, will you—"

—and then shut again, silencing the voices. The neighbors didn't know they should be grateful for a phenomenal job of soundproofing. Tish hurried down the front walk, looking relieved when she caught sight of Donald. "Thank God you're here."

He fought a rising panic; where was Elizabeth? "What's wrong?"

"Other than the Six Day War going on in the living room? At least it's just screaming and yelling this time. Last time, Mom threw anything she could lay her hands on, busted out the sliding door and glass went everywhere. Had to drain the pool. Dad was really cheesed." She was looking up toward the sky, blinking hard to fight back tears.

"Where's—ah—where's Elizabeth?"

Her gaze dropped. "Upstairs. I can't get her to answer. And her door's locked." She looked up; the pain on her face made him forgive any unkind notion her actions had ever caused him to think. "She really gets upset when they fight. She can't stand _anybody_ fighting. When they fought when she was little, she'd hide in the closet. For hours."

"Jesus Christ," he said involuntarily. He blessed his parents for keeping their discord with each other civil—or at least out of his hearing. Maybe divorce wasn't such a bad thing,

"Yeah. So… I was hoping _you_ might get her to come out? I figure we're not staying here, so I left dad a note on his desk and raided his emergency money. We can all go out to eat, maybe a movie or something—I just… _we_ just need to get my sister out."

"Let's go." He didn't wait for her acknowledgement, but strode toward the house. He heard Tish call out, "Gene, tell them—" and hurry to catch up with him.

"Shh," she cautioned. She held a hand on the doorknob. "We don't want to catch Mom's eye," she whispered. She pushed open the door. Thank God the hinges didn't squeak.

"Oh, that's priceless, coming from you! Tennis lessons? _Tennis __lessons?_ How stupid do you think I am, Julia?"

Tish pointed to the stairs. "Last door on the right, all the way back. I'll wait here for you," she whispered.

"Oh, please! I've done enough for king and country! Those damned faculty functions? Committees? I left that shit behind when I stopped doing church socials!"

Donald winced and hurried up the stairs. At least the volume dropped appreciably as he went down the hall. Last door on the right… He tried turning the knob; as Tish had said, it was locked. "Elizabeth?" he called softly. There was no answer. "Ealasaid? Ealasaid, it's—" A couple of quiet thumps then the door flew open and she fell into his arms. "It's all right," he whispered.

She held him tightly, trembling, her face pressed against his chest. "I hate this…" her voice quavered. Her distress over her parents screaming match made her seem like a child.

"Come away with me. We're all going out, away from here." He didn't have to say it twice. She ran back into her room, grabbed her purse and cloak and silently padded behind him.

"Believe me, I would _much_ rather be talking than screaming! But you apparently cannot respond under a hundred decibels—"

"And I am _screaming_ because you don't _listen_ to me when I _talk_! You have _never_ listened to me—"

Tish waved them down; they hurried down the stairs and through the foyer, dashing through the front door like they were escaping prison. Not far off, really. When they joined the others, Donald released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

"Let's regroup at JoJo's," Tish said decisively.

"Sepulveda, hang a right?" Amanda asked. When Tish nodded, she said, "I'm fine if someone can get me back to Hawthorne Boulevard."

"We can lead the parade," Gene offered. Everyone piled into their respective vehicles and quickly swung into a line.

Elizabeth hunkered down in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly, hands pressed to her sides. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Elizabeth, you have done nothing for which you should apologize!" To his horror, she burst into tears. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to make you cry—"

"No, no," she gulped, digging a packet of tissues from her purse. "You didn't, I just—" she drew a shuddering breath. "I am so _relieved_ to be out of there! God, there are times—" she swiped at her eyes and pursed her lips. "There are times I—I _hate_ my mother!" she burst out. "Most of the time, she's, she's all right, but, God, if she's had too much to drink—"

He reached over and squeezed her hand. "I understand."

"Dad—it's supposed to be this big secret, but we all knew—Dad sent her away to dry out last year. And it worked for a while. The other students—she was fine, everything was fine, and then Christmas came and—" she threw her hands up. "She's been getting worse ever since. She keeps accusing Dad of sleeping with Sassy, he's not, I know he's not, but—" she broke off, staring at her hands. She silently shredded the tissue in her lap. "I think she's sleeping with her tennis pro." Her voice was flat. "No. I _know_ she is."

"Oh… oh, Ealasaid…" he pulled up to the stop sign and was able to give her a quick glance before turning and following the others. "I'm so sorry."

She shrugged tiredly. "I just… I don't know what to do."

"There's nothing you can do, my love. Just… survive."

She retreated into silence for the rest of the drive. After he had swung into the parking lot and turned off the engine, she reached over and took his hand. "The school could have sent you anywhere." She stared at their joined hands, her thumb rubbing the backs of his fingers. "I am so glad… _so __glad_… they sent you here."

He moved closer and wrapped his arms about her. "So am I."

"Now that I have you in my life—I can't imagine my life without you in it." Her voice was muffled, her face pressed into his shoulder.

"Nor can I." He pulled back enough to cup her cheek and give her an encouraging kiss. "Come on. Let's catch up with the others."

Tish gave them an almost malicious grin when they walked up. "So. We are going to completely ignore the bullshit that we just escaped. They aren't with us, so let's not let them ruin our night. It's too early for dinner—but JoJo's makes the best damned onion rings you'll ever eat, and we can figure out what to do for the rest of the night."

Elizabeth suddenly gasped. "Oh, my God! I left the turkey in the oven!"

Tish actually laughed. "Oh, Bizzy!"

"It's going to be ruined!"

"Oh, come here, Suzy Homemaker." Donald was pleased to see Tish wrap her sister in a hug. "Dad'll take care of it. Or the house will burn down. Who cares?" she laughed. She turned her sister around and firmly pushed her the few steps toward Donald. "Robbie will have a great chew toy, if he's lucky."

They commandeered a large booth in the back of the restaurant, and by studious effort and liberal application of food got the group back into a happier mood. Donald and Eddie gleefully told stories on each other—often carefully edited—Gene drew on his tales from Hollywood, Amanda told stories of her father's less-than-usable car designs and the Stewart sisters poked fun at each other and themselves. Donald found himself wishing that Dennys and Madalena hadn't gone to Mexico.

Gene's prediction of Den and Mad driving to Tijuana was incorrect. As they were settling the check—Tish insisted that the money she had liberated from her father's desk be used for all of them throughout the evening—Dennys and his fiancée came in the front door of the restaurant. "I was hoping we'd catch you," Maddie cried, hugging everyone (including a startled Amanda) in turn. "We saw Gene's car in the parking lot when we drove past—"

Gene grinned. "I don't ever want to hear a word against the Purple People-eater again."

Tish gave her fiancé a hug. "Have I ever said anything disparaging about the purple… metallic flake… silver-trimmed… Firebird from hell?"

He shrugged. "I wanted something I could easily find in the parking lot."

"Well, you got it, honey, that's for sure."

"So, what's the game plan?" Dennys asked as they strolled back to the parking lot.

General shrugs all around. "We hadn't decided. We were talking about a movie, maybe skating.." Gene said.

Tish jumped up and down, using Gene's arm for leverage. "Skating! Skating!"

"Oooh, skating," Dennys echoed. "Great way to burn off some excess energy."

"If you can skate," Elizabeth said drily.

"You can skate, Biz," Tish teased. "You just need to—"

"Let go! Be free, little birds!" Tish and Elizabeth chanted together in bad Russian accents. They fell on each other, giggling.

"Our first skating instructor," Tish managed to get out around her laughter.

"Mrs. Provlenka. Provlunka? Something like that," her sister added.

"God, she drove us nuts. 'Leeetle birds, leeetle birds.'" Tish shuddered dramatically. "So, one day we were all in line, ready to practice skating the entire length of the rink without falling down—"

"She was my instructor a few years later. Guess who _never_ made it to the end of the rink?" Elizabeth pointed to herself. Donald grinned at her.

"And Shelly Wardle leaned over and whispered, 'If she says 'leetle bird' one more time, this leetle bird is gonna shit on her car.'"

"At which point nobody made it across the ice," Elizabeth giggled. "I mean, you were, what, six? _Nobody_ said things like that, especially sweet little six year old girls."

"You weren't even there."

"Yeah, but that story stayed around until Mrs. P retired. And then some."

"So... are we all going to go fly like leetle birds?" Tish flapped her arms. She stuck out her lower lip. "My skates are in the trunk. Hint. Hint. Hint," she said like the slow tick of a grandfather clock.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Oh, all right." She was teasing. "But I don't want to hear any comments about my being a wall-hugger!"

Tish made a sloppy cross over her heart. "Cross my heart, spit in my eye, all that crap. Come on, next session starts at four."

In the car, Donald wiggled his eyebrows at Elizabeth. "I can think of other things you can hug besides the wall."

She grinned in response. "Well, that's a given." She cupped her hand on his cheek. "Have I told you today that I love you?"

He made a show of thinking. "Hmm. No. You haven't."

She brought her other hand up to the other side. "I love you. I love you. _I __love __you_," she said, punctuating each 'I love you' with a lingering kiss.

"I like how you make up a deficit." He was leaning over to kiss her in return when a loud horn toot disrupted him. He looked up and saw Madalena's van across from them, Maddie in the driver's seat (with a big grin on her face) and Dennys leaning over, hand over the steering wheel. He gave them a stern look and wagged an admonishing finger. Elizabeth sent him a glare in return and waved him off, and made a point of giving Donald a particularly long kiss, ignoring the warbling honk. "You brother is going to kill me," Donald said conversationally.

"No he won't. I have too much blackmail on him."

Donald started the engine. "Remind me not to make you mad."

She glanced up from her tucked down face. "No chance that will ever happen."

/ / /

Elizabeth was better than she thought, but far outpaced by the rest. She managed to go around the outside of the rink at a reasonable pace, keeping to the unofficial 'slow lane,' her hand twined with Donald's. He didn't mind that the others passed them repeatedly; he was with his Ealasaid. He was happy. He thought of the receipt hidden in his wallet and grinned. Very happy.

After a couple of dozen turns, they stepped off the ice and clomped to the snack bar for some hot chocolate (in Donald's case, hot tea). They sat on the metal bleachers, watching the crowds go by and listening to the announcements over the slightly tinny music. "Counterclockwise, please. Please skate counterclockwise… Please, no jumps until six o'clock. Spins in center ice, only, and no jumps until six o'clock… No racing on the ice, please be courteous to your fellow skaters…" The announcer sounded like he was talking in his sleep.

"Hungry?"

She held up her fingers about an inch apart. "A little."

"They have hamburgers, hot dogs…" he offered.

"Oh, I was thinking Chinese," she said with a grin. "You are _not_ going back home without going to Pancho's at least once, and since Dad is picking up the tab tonight, let's live large."

"What is it about Pancho's that everyone is so desperate for us to go there?" he laughed.

Madalena awkwardly climbed over the bleacher and sat next to Elizabeth, carefully balancing a cup of hot chocolate. "Because Pancho's is the best Chinese food. Period. Only place better is in San Francisco—they call that Chinatown." She took a cautious sip of her cocoa. "Hey, speaking of San Francisco, are you coming with us?"

"With you?"

Dennys joined them, balancing a plate with a double cheeseburger and enough French fries that the fry cook must have used three whole potatoes. "What'd I miss?"

"We're going to Pancho's later," Elizabeth said decisively.

"Cool." Dennys took a huge bite of his burger. "Best volcano shrimp," he added after washing it down with a large gulp of soda.

"Will you have room?" Donald laughed.

"Oh, heck, yeah. I'll burn this off in half an hour."

"If I didn't love him, I'd hate him. He eats everything in sight and doesn't gain a pound. I look at chocolate cake—whammo, it attaches itself to my hips," Maddie groused.

"Well, men do have slightly different metabolisms," Donald said comfortingly. "Although, if I continue to enjoy Elizabeth's cooking when I go home my luggage won't be overweight—but I will be!"

"Flatterer," Elizabeth laughed. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek; after a moment of thought, she moved slightly and kissed him again on the lips. The glint in her eye made it plain she had done that to make a point to her brother.

A point that was not missed, judging by the sharp look. But Dennys didn't say anything; it was Maddie who grinned and said, "You two make a cute couple." When Dennys swung his gaze to her, she drew herself up. "What? They are!"

"Please clear the ice… please clear the ice… freestyle session from six to six-thirty… spins in center ice, jumps along perimeter… level six and above only, please… please clear the ice for the Zamboni…"

Dennys sighed. "I wanna ride the Zamboni." He looked like a little boy—if you ignored the long hair, beard and moustache.

"Me, too," Maddie said.

"Me, three," Elizabeth chimed in.

"I wonder what it is that everyone wants to ride a Zamboni," Donald mused, watching the attendants shut the gates, children crowded against the glass to watch.

"Well… it's big, like a tractor. So that's kinda cool," Dennys suggested.

"It's magic," Maddie said dreamily. When the others stared at her, amused, she laughed. "Well, look!" She pointed at the lumbering, belching machine as it swept across the ice. "In front of it, the ice is all chopped up and scruffy looking from all the skaters. It gliiiiiides over… and behind is this beautiful mirror of ice. It's magic."

Donald smiled. "That's very pretty." He caught sight of Gene at the top of the rubber-carpeted stairs, scanning the crowd and waved to catch his attention. "Where's Tish?" he asked when Gene was closer.

Elizabeth looked around, puzzled. "Tish, I can guess. Where are Eddie and Mandy? I haven't seen them for ages."

Gene smiled. "Oh, they're… around." From the look he shot Donald, Eddie had gotten over his hesitation with Amanda and was making up for lost time. "As for Tish—as Lizzie said, she can guess." He jerked his chin toward the rink, where the attendants were reopening the gates. "She's just been marking time until six."

Donald turned so he had a better view of the ice, slipping his arm around Elizabeth as he did so. Dennys could only kill him once.

"There she is." Elizabeth pointed. Tish was already a striking form on the ice in white Capri pants and a wild tie-dyed long-sleeved shirt; she had added to her height by pulling her hair into a high tail and had a serious look Donald had never seen. He watched her fly around the edge, neatly weaving around the other skaters, building up speed and then—

"Wow!" he gasped. She had sprung from the ice like she had coiled springs instead of blades on her feet, reaching a tremendous height and landing neatly on one foot, arms out. She tucked her arms in, immediately flew into a second leap, landed and continued on her way.

"Double toe-loop, double sal," Elizabeth identified, eyes locked on her sister. Another leap, this time doing the splits in the air. "Nice height," Elizabeth approved. "Especially in those pants."

"She's great!" Donald said, still in shock. He wasn't alone in his assessment; because of the required level of ability, there were fewer than two dozen skaters on the ice. Several of them were giving Tish dirty looks as she flew past, skating backward and then doing a series of three jumps in a row. He couldn't understand her angry look.

"Mmh. She singled that last toe-loop." Elizabeth glanced up at him. "She should have done two rotations, she only did one."

"Oh." That explained the pissed-off look. She had compensated by extending a leg up and circling the rink on one foot, sheer momentum propelling her. "Oh, they are jealous out there." Elizabeth nodded. "Why doesn't she try out for the Olympics? I mean, she is _good_."

There was an uncomfortable silence, finally broken by Dennys. "My mom."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Mom pushed Tish. Tish finally pushed back. You can lead a horse to water… She'd take Tish to lessons, to practice… and she'd just sit there. Wouldn't even go on the ice. Mom finally gave up, and Tish went back to enjoying the ice again. Holy crap!" she yelped, jumping up.

"What?" Donald stood as well.

"She almost got a triple loop!" Elizabeth almost screeched. She was jumping up and down—as best she could on skates, anyway. "Two and a half rotations! Oh, my God!"

Tish's face was a mixture of joy and anger. She was plainly thrilled at her accomplishment—but berating herself over missing the last half rotation. She cut over to the center ice and almost threw herself into a spin that made Donald a little motion sick to watch.

"I will never… _never_… push my children like Mom did." He could barely hear Elizabeth's words.

He slipped an arm about her waist and pulled her close. "I know you won't."

It was amazing how quickly a half-hour passed, but all too soon came the announcement, "Public skating has resumed… all levels allowed on the ice, no jumps. Repeat, no jumps. Please skate counterclockwise…"

Tish pushed her way through the crowd, joining them on the bleachers. "Okay. I'm pooped," she admitted with a laugh, panting.

"I am, and I was just _watching_," Donald said in admiration.

Maddie tugged Dennys' arm. "Let's work off that burger and give you room for Pancho's."

Tish brightened. "Oooh, Pancho's?"

"By eight o'clock the dinner crowd should be gone," her brother called back as his fiancée dragged him toward the ice.

Tish gave him a thumbs-up and sat back, still breathing hard.

"Coke?" Gene asked.

"Lemonade?" she said hopefully.

"You got it, Peggy Fleming."

She shook her head as he walked off. "Still can't land a triple."

"Tish, nobody has landed a triple in competition," her sister said. "Well—no woman," she amended.

"I'd like to be first."

Elizabeth stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. "Right back," she said, heading toward the restrooms.

"Is it too late to go back into competition?" Donald asked.

"No. Way." Tish shook her head slowly. "I just want to do it. Land it. If I even hinted about skating again, Mom would make my life a living hell. Thanks—but no thanks."

"Maybe… after you and Gene get married?" he suggested.

She thought for a long moment. "Maybe… I dunno. I kinda just want to be the Kool-aid mom."

He laughed. "The what?"

"The Kool-aid mom," she repeated with a small laugh. "You know… the mom who's home, all the neighborhood kids hang out at her place… The Girl Scouts have meetings in her living room, she's the cookie chairman every year, makes stupid Halloween costumes…" she trailed off, staring at her lap and picking at nonexistent lint.

"Huh." Donald stared at her, seeing a whole new Patricia. "I—I think that's nice," he said gently.

She quirked a smile. "Thanks," she said in a small voice. She laughed lightly. "They'll have to have Auntie Bizzy make homemade cookies for them, though."

"Oh, I don't know… I have a feeling 'Auntie Bizzy' could teach you to make cookies if you put your mind to it."

"Ducky?" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I'm sorry. Don?"

He laughed. "You know, I'm starting to not mind 'Ducky' so much."

"Mr. Mallard," she said with great formality. They shared a laugh, then she grew serious again. "Are you in love with my sister?"

He nodded slowly. "Oh, yes."

She stared off a moment, then gave a short laugh and shook her head. "I've never seen two people fall so hard, so fast, in my life."

He smiled. "Neither have I."

"You'll keep her safe—won't you?"

That was a little surprising. "Of course. I mean, as best I can."

She stared off to her left, watching a group of small children trying to waddle along the edge of the rink but plainly not seeing them. "She's the youngest, you know."

He nodded.

"Dennys… well, Dennys could do no wrong. He's a boy," she said with a small laugh. "But when he came home… Mom—Mom doesn't see the problems he has, says he's just looking for attention… Bitch," she whispered. Donald couldn't argue the point. "Me? I was the chosen one for a long time. The golden girl," she said sarcastically. "Biz and I both got stuck in ballet and skating and tennis and, and, _and_. You name it, we took it. For a long time I used to think Biz was uncoordinated on purpose, so mom would leave her alone. But you don't have that kind of cunning at four. I got tired of it. I got so… sick… and… tired… of being _fucking_ _perfect_," she hissed, eyes closed. Donald almost jumped at both her language and her fury. "So I quit. Everything. And I worked at being as… _un_-perfect as I could be." She laughed shortly and looked at Donald. "I think I succeeded."

"Nobody's perfect, Tish. And no parent should expect their child to be."

"Yeah… I guess some people shouldn't have kids." She looked at him sadly.

"Perhaps… but I think Gene and Maddie and I would all object."

She looked off toward the snack bar, where Gene was still stuck in the crowd. "Mom had as much of a fit when I came home with Gene as she did with Larry." She rolled her eyes. "A special effects designer? Oh, _my_ _**God**_," she said dramatically. "He plays with toys all day! _What_ kind of _future_ is _that_?" She snorted derisively. "Then she saw the kind of money he makes and the fact that he keeps pretty normal hours—and she shut up. And started focusing all her energies on the youngest princess in the castle." She sighed heavily. "Maybe if I'd continued being a screwup for a few more years, Lizzie would have had a chance to break free… Jeez, Don… Bizzy just wants people to be happy. She feels like she's failed if she can't make people happy. That's a helluva weight to carry. When she was younger, she willingly went to every damned dance lesson, every tennis lesson—scared to death she was going to get smacked with a ball, but, by God, she went. And the one thing she was really, really good at—music? Well, that was fine so long as it stayed in the _drawing __room_," she said bitterly, rolling her eyes. "But the minute she got on stage—" she broke off abruptly. "Uh…"

"I—ah, I know about the Bawdy Barmaids." When she continued to look at him hesitantly, he smiled. "I think it sounds cute."

She nodded. "Cute. Yeah, they are." She looked toward her sister wending her way back to them; the line in the bathroom was shorter than the line at the snack bar—Gene was just getting to the counter. Tish turned and grasped Donald's arm. "Take her away," she said intensely. "I know you can't, not now, not yet. But as soon as you can—get her away from my mother. Protect her. Take care of her. Lizzie wants to please everyone—even people who can never, ever really be pleased."

"That isn't—how she sees me, is it?" he asked with trepidation.

"You love her even though she can barely stand on her skates. You love her even though she probably bowls in negative numbers." He laughed. "You love her whether she does something perfectly or not. And she knows this. You aren't making up to her because she's ooh-aah, Dr. Stewart's daughter. If anything, I think you love her despite that."

He smiled. "Not quite."

"I almost wish we weren't getting married this summer. I'd like to stay home, try to stand between her and Mom—I love Dennys, but he can't…"

"I understand."

"But, Don, I swear to God, if I live with that woman one more year, I'll kill her. Or myself."

Donald froze, unable to answer. He even jumped slightly when Elizabeth draped her arms over his shoulders, even though he knew she had been coming up behind him. He recovered enough to take a hand and brush a kiss to the back of her wrist.

"Oooh, suave," Tish teased, the moment gone.

"You said it," Elizabeth laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

"Oh, Gunga Din, I love you," Tish said to Gene as he handed over a large cup. She drained almost half of it before coming up for air.

"Thirsty?" Gene teased.

"Man, I haven't skated like that—"

"Since last week," he finished with a laugh.

"I did not!"

"You did so! I was here, remember? We stayed until they closed the place down. I could barely walk."

"Whine, whine, whine," she teased.

Donald stood and shook the stiffness from his legs. "Back on the ice?"

Elizabeth hesitated a split second. "Why don't you go first? I'll be there in a sec."

Ah. Sister talk. He thought he had seen Tish's hand slip over in a light pinch. "Sure. Want to warm up the ice with me, Gene?"

"You're on. We can keep count who lands on their ass fastest."

/ / /

"You will go on an ocean voyage." Tish grinned and popped half of her fortune cookie in her mouth.

"You will marry well and long." Gene slipped the fortune into his wallet. "I'm keeping that one and framing it."

Dennys cracked open his cookie. "Man with three clocks never sure of the time." He shrugged. "Kinda deep for a cookie."

"Handsome is that handsome does." Eddie cocked his head. "Not sure if I like that one."

"Make new friends but keep the old for one is silver, the other, gold." Mandy looked pleased. "The Girl Scouts."

"A clean house is the sign of a bored wife." Maddie gave Dennys a wicked look.

He snickered. "Not saying a thing. Noth… ink!" he finished with a decent Sergeant Schultz imitation.

Donald cracked open his cookie and unfurled the paper strip. "The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of. Pascal," he added, recognizing the quote. He tucked it into his wallet; it could be positive or negative, but it made a cute memento regardless.

Elizabeth was the last to open her fortune cookie. She stared at the paper for a long moment, then raised solemn eyes to the group.

"What does it say?" Amanda asked anxiously.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Help! I'm a prisoner in a Chinese bakery!"

The rest of the table was divided between groans and laughter. "No, no, what does it say," her sister prodded.

"The love of your life is nearer than you know," she said smugly. There was a chorus of goodhearted catcalls—even, Donald noted, from Dennys—which he took as a good sign. "Truer words were never spoken." She leaned over and gave him a light kiss.

"Where to from here?" Eddie asked over the last of his margarita. It was a good thing Amanda was driving; he had fallen for the potent drink (the one concession to the name 'Pancho's') in a big way and was in no shape to drive. (He was barely in shape to walk.)

"Ooh! Ooh! Santa Monica Pier!" Tish suggested, bouncing up and down on her chair.

"That's so kitschy," he brother objected.

"I don't care if it's kitschy, it's fun, too!" she said. Donald grinned at her enthusiasm. He had a feeling the kitschy pier-loving Kool-aid mom was closer to the real Patricia than he'd seen in three weeks… and he liked her. "It's better than Disneyland."

"No way!" Dennys protested.

"It's free to walk in," Tish said reasonably. "No stupid ticket books, rides are really cheap..."

"Well… that's true," he reluctantly admitted. "Okay—Santa Monica it is."

/ / /

At the small amusement part, Amanda kept a weather eye on Eddie, wisely suggesting the tame carousel before heading for the roller coaster. He staggered off the ride, an unattractive shade of green. "So, did we learn something?" she asked with great cheer.

"_No mas margaritas_," he groaned.

"Good boy." She patted him on the head.

"Oh, God, don't do that, it hurts!"

"Huh. Not like it will tomorrow," she said. "Tequila, baby. Tequila."

"One tequila, two tequila, three tequila—floor," Tish chanted. Donald made a mental note to avoid anything with tequila for the rest of his life.

Donald had the great idea of kissing Elizabeth as they swooped and swung about the corners of the roller coaster but it didn't quite pan out. After the first dip they were both too busy screaming in gleeful fear to do anything more entertaining with their mouths. On the other hand the Ferris wheel, he discovered, was far more geared toward cuddling and kissing—once one got over the stomach-dropping terror of being so far above the ground.

"There's PV!" she cried, pointing to the far off lights. They were stopped close to the top of the arc as the attendant started to exchange new riders for old.

"Should we wave to your parents?"

"Nah." She twisted, causing the boat to rock slightly. "That's Malibu." She grinned up at him. "That's where all the movie stars live."

"I thought they lived in Beverly Hills."

"Well, some of them still do. But Malibu is becoming the hot place to be. More secluded—plus you've got your own beach."

"Private beach? Sounds nice."

They had reached the top of the circle. Elizabeth stared up at the night sky, her eyes dreamy. "I feel like I could reach out and touch the stars…"

"They pale next to you."

"Now… _that_ is excessive." She grinned. "But nice." She leaned up and kissed him, not breaking away until they had circled to the bottom and the attendant said 'excuse me?' for the third time. "I wish you didn't have to go back to Scotland," she sighed as they strolled away from the ride, hand in hand.

"Well… that's not until the end of next month." But he was inclined to agree; he had never wanted to stay somewhere so desperately. "You could always come over… maybe visit…?" _Maybe… stay?_

"I'd like that. I want to meet your mother."

"My mother?" he laughed.

"Scrrrrabble," she said with a decent burr to her 'r.'

"Ah." He pondered the idea for a moment. "I have an even better idea."

"Oh?"

He pulled her into a photo booth and sat down, Elizabeth on his lap, and plunked a handful of quarters into the machine. "Your father… playing against my mother."

The first photo showed Elizabeth, head thrown back in a roar of laughter. They never explained to anyone just what the hell was so funny.

* * *

><p>9<p> 


	10. Requiem in Cadence

**Chapter Ten: Requiem in Cadence**

_**Requiem:** A dirge, hymn, or  
>musical service for the<br>repose of the dead.  
><em>_**Cadence:** A sequence of chords  
>that brings an end to a phrase,<br>either in the middle or  
>the end of a composition.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>September 13, 2009<strong>

It had been a long night fraught with fitful sleep. He finally gave up at one, wandering downstairs to pull a well-read mystery from the shelf. But after reading the same paragraph four times with no comprehension, he gave up and tossed it aside. An attempt at playing chess on the computer was fruitless; if it had been given a voice, the damned thing would have laughed at him. He didn't always win (though 3 out of 4 wasn't a bad ratio), but he did give the machine a run for its money when he lost. This time, he was bested in three minutes. Shameful.

Obviously his mind couldn't concentrate on anything complex. There were too many mental files scattered about. Sighing, he turned on the television, turning the sound down low; it was a frequent companion since his mother had gone into Cambridge Care. He didn't particularly watch the babble box—so many of the shows were truly dreadful—but he liked to hear voices in the house. Conversations. It made the place seem a little less lonely.

_Spiral fracture… within the last three years, four at the most._

Spiral fractures. The favorite injury inflicted by violent parents. Scream at a child; grab an arm, twist—snap. Crack. Hand off a load of bullshit to the emergency room doctor. But doctors had become more vigilant over the years, laws more stringent. Children coming in with a fracture like Elizabeth's would be swept from their parents, sequestered until it could be determined exactly how the injury had occurred, placed into protective custody if need be.

But Elizabeth was not a child. She was not of an advanced enough age that the doctors were considering elder abuse—but it was not the kind of injury that could happen falling down the stairs, for example. Dr. Ackerman had said she was quite forthcoming about the prior injury to the arm she had broken on Saturday: caused by her ex-husband over thirty-five years prior, just as it would have been caused on a child. Screaming. Beating. Trying to flee. Grabbing. Throwing to the ground, twisting—snap. Snap. Snap. She was calm when relating her story, almost detached.

_But… what about your right arm, Mrs. Hamilton…?_

Well, yes, Walter had broken her right arm, too. There had been so many injuries over the years…

_No; this one was much more recent. Perhaps three years ago?_

Ackerman said she had been silent for several minutes, then: "Oh, my. I had forgotten. It—it was so awful, I tried to block it, I guess."

Worse than having the man who had sworn to love, honor and cherish you beat you senseless for two years?

_Oh… it was a mugging. I stayed late one night, this young man—it was so sudden, he was grabbing my purse, it pulled my arm—_

Mmh. Ackerman's 'bullshit-o-meter' had gone into the red zone. She was lying, he was sure. But why?

The first suspect would be her spouse—but she wasn't married. It sounded like she wasn't even dating. The next logical suspects: immediate family.

Tori? Not a chance. He was willing to stake his reputation on it. She was a wreck over her aunt's accident, worried beyond measure. (Ah, but how many abusive parents came off as loving and concerned in front of the doctors?) He shook his head. No. _No_. It couldn't be Tori, it just couldn't be. Besides, she was a tiny thing, as small as Elizabeth had been all those years ago; she wouldn't have the strength to hurt Elizabeth. She was smaller than—

—Ziva.

_He abruptly remembered a tour the year before, a civics and government class from a local high school. A big, hulking lad, football player by his letterman jacket (probably played all back four), had laughed at the idea of Ziva being able to 'take him down.' She had smiled that smile that made her team tread carefully and said, "Size is far less important than you know." His classmates had laughed roundly at the double entendre, and the young man had turned almost maroon with embarrassed fury, still insisting that he'd beat her in a fair fight._

_A glance to the teacher; "His parents signed a waiver. All of them did. They knew there would be demonstrations… If he's volunteering for a self-defense demo…"_

_He most certainly was. He swaggered up to stand in front of Ziva, towering over her by more than a foot and outweighing her by at least 140. She smiled sweetly and said, "Hold out your hand." He complied. One second later, she bent back a finger (carefully not breaking it); half a second later, he dropped to his knees like a rock. She released his finger and stepped back, hands folded demurely in front of her._

_Time expended: five seconds, max._

"_Aw, you can't do it again. I know what to expect."_

_She shook her head. "Dumb as a boxed rock," she muttered._

"_Box of rocks," DiNozzo corrected._

_She looked at the football player expectantly, who crawled back to his feet and held out his hand, smirking. "Both sayings are stupid." So was the student._

_Three seconds. Flat._

"_As you can see… Size. Means." Smile. "**Nothing**." The ribbing of his classmates probably continued for weeks to come._

Size… means… _nothing_. Ducky shivered.

No. Tori couldn't—_wouldn__'__t_. Impossible.

But that only left Rowena. She didn't have the ultra-defined physique of an obsessive body-builder, but the short sleeves of her scrub shirt showed she was in excellent condition. Even her scrub pants couldn't hide her sturdy leg muscles. She was tall, lithe, strong—she could have easily…

_**No!**_ He slammed a clenched fist against the padded arm of the sofa. He couldn't think that of her. This was her grandmother, for God's sake. She planned to be a medical student—she wanted to save lives, not harm them, take them—

He stared at the scar that split the back of his hand and drew a shaky breath. Oh, _yes_… doctors _never_ caused harm. And his judgment was _always_ spot on: Dr. Janice Byers immediately sprang to mind. The hell with Janice—Julia Stewart was more to the point. _Oh, __yes, __spectacular __judgment, __Mallard._

_Oh, God._

He frowned; _it __sounded __like __she __wasn__'__t __even __dating_. Now—yes. But perhaps, back then…? After what she had endured with Walter Hamilton, wouldn't she have come forth, told the truth again?

Perhaps… perhaps not. The idea of admitting that she had made such a mistake again might have been too much. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…?

Yes. Oh, yes—definitely. That was far more palatable than the idea of Tori or Rowena hurting her. It had to be what had happened.

If he could just get her to tell him…

/ / /

"Mallard residence," he mumbled. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and squinted at the cable box; who in the hell would call him at six-thirty in the morning?

"Dr. Mallard?"

"_Yes_," he said with excessive patience.

"Special Agent Murphy Harris, sir. We have the weekend shift; just received a call, woman in Burke couldn't reach her ex-husband, Staff Sergeant—" the sound of rustling papers. "Kevin Prentiss. She went into the back yard this morning, says she can see him hanging off the bed and he looks dead."

"Mmfh." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Burke? Virginia?"

"Yes, sir. We contacted your assistant, he's on his way to pick up the wagon, he'll meet you at the site—"

"That's much more sensible than my driving a hundred miles round-trip," he said drily. "What is the address?" He scrabbled for a notepad, jotted down the address and directions. Fortunately, he had a couple of jumpsuits at home; it wasn't the first time he'd been called to a scene from the house, and probably wouldn't be the last. "As quickly as possible. Yes." He staggered to the kitchen and put the kettle on; a lightning-fast shower to wake up, change, take tea in that thermal mug Tori had sent home… he'd be awake and probably beat Mr. Palmer to the scene. With longing thoughts for the delicious treats Tori had brought to the hospital the day before, he forced himself to go upstairs and climb into the shower.

/ / /

"Suicide?" Mr. Palmer asked, brows gathered.

Ducky shook his head. "Possibly. Or… accidental overdose." He gestured toward the body on the table. "A liver like so much cheap shoe leather—our Staff Sergeant has been abusing his body with overindulgence of alcohol for quite some time. And I'd be willing to bet—'the cheap stuff,'" he said with a sniff and a look of distaste. "Percocet from one doctor, Tramadol from a second, Phenelzine from a third, all clearly marked 'do not take with alcohol' but that advisory does not ensure the patient will obey. Massive stroke, pharmacologically induced. Suicide…" He almost threw his pen on the desk. "Or stupidity. Pick your poison," he said with barely repressed anger.

There was an uncomfortable silence from his assistant.

"I apologize for my… lack of patience, Jimmy." When he started to object, Ducky waved him off. "I am not in the best of moods today."

"You look kind of tired, Dr. Mallard," he said hesitantly. "Did you have a bad night? I guess with your mom gone and Dr. Hampton gone—I mean—that is—I'll… just… close him up?" he finished.

"That would be an excellent idea," he said tolerantly. The boy really meant no harm, but sometimes his mouth was just stuck in fifth gear.

"Hey, Duckman!"

He smiled and shook his head, looking up at the laboratory link screen. "Good afternoon, my dear." Abby had probably come in with fewer hours of sleep than he had, but she sounded perfectly rested and perky. Oh, to be young again…

"Got the tox results." She looked almost smug.

"Mmh?" he said encouragingly.

"_I__'__m __as __corny __as __Kansas __in __August_," she belted out. She looked at him expectantly.

He drew a complete blank. All he could think of was the last CD she had given to him—Chaos Theory—and none of the lyrics even came close. "I'm sorry, Abby, I need you to fill in the blanks."

"_High __as __a __flag __on __the __fourth __of __July_," came from behind him. He turned slowly to find Mr. Palmer standing over Staff Sergeant Prentiss, needle in hand, suture running down to the body. He looked slightly abashed. "My mother likes old musicals," he said awkwardly.

"Jimmy!" Abby laughed appreciatively. "Not a bad voice! Yeah, our Staff Sergeant was flying without air traffic control or a flight plan. Lear jets cruise lower than this dude. His bloodstream could have left his whole neighborhood stoned."

"Percocet?"

"Acetaminophen and Oxycodone, yep."

"Tramadol?"

"Oh, yeah."

"And Phenelzine?" Ducky said tiredly.

"Yeppers. And a little meth, some THC—the pot they brought in was high-grade, no pun intended—and the hair samples show a long history of cocaine use."

"Good Lord."

"Annnnnnd… his BAC…" she leaned over to consult a screen. "2.2. Almost three times the legal limit. He was posted, toasted and roasted." She looked at him shrewdly. "Suicide?"

"Possibly. There's no indication that he was restrained in any way, forced to overdose… His body shows long-term exposure and abuse. It could be an accidental overdose; the prescriptions are dated this week."

"Gonna do a little forensic psychology on our DARE poster child?"

He was too tired to think straight. "After Agent Harris and his team have done more work on their investigation." That should give him time to get a good night's sleep—maybe two.

"Oh—how's Elizabeth?" she said, bouncing on her chair.

The silence behind him was pronounced. "The surgery went well," he said neutrally. "She's still in the hospital, should go home in a couple of days."

"I'm so glad." She looked like she wanted to say more but reconsidered, probably (belatedly) taking into consideration that Ducky was not alone.

"As a matter of fact…" He glanced at the clock: two p.m. He could stop by the hospital, visit with Elizabeth a bit—but he always visited his mother on Sunday afternoons. Both would tap him out completely. "I need to give a call, see how she's doing."

"Give her my love." She almost blanched. "Uh, tell her I hope she feels better."

He smiled. "I will."

He punched a speed dial code; all of the hospitals were on the list. He spent the time waiting for the switchboard to pick up debating with himself: room phone or nurse's station? He decided the latter just as the line was answered. The hold music as he was transferred was just a shade too peppy for his brain.

"Five East."

"Yes, this is Dr. Donald Mallard—" it never hurt to use a title. "I'm inquiring as to the status of a patient, Elizabeth Hamilton, 510—"

"Oh, yes, doctor, I remember you from yesterday. Edie Dawes."

"Nurse Dawes, yes." He put a smile in his voice.

"Dr. Mallard—Mrs. Hamilton left two hours ago. Just as I came on shift."

He couldn't have heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes." She sounded quite unhappy. "She insisted on being released AMA."

AMA—against medical advice. "And she went _home_?" (_Where __else __would __she __go__—__back __to __the __store?_)

"I would assume so. Oh—wait just a—may I put you on hold?"

"Of course," he said politely.

After a moment, the line opened again. "Dr. Ackerman."

Thank God. "Ted. Donald Mallard."

"Ducky." A heavy sigh came across the wire.

"What is this about Elizabeth Hamilton leaving AMA?" He was a mix of appalled, horrified and angry, and tried to keep it from his voice.

"Very much AMA," he said grimly. "But she's not qualified for a 72 hour psych hold, her vitals were stable—I just don't like the idea of her going home. Not with… things still up in the air."

Things. The cause of her injury three years before.

"Do you have any information?" Dr. Ackerman asked obliquely.

"Not yet," he sighed. "But… I'm sure your… thoughts… were incorrect."

"I doubt her veracity with regard to the history," he said stiffly. Medical code talk.

"And… I concur," Ducky said cautiously. "But I feel there must be another option beyond the two we have discussed."

"Mmh. Will you be… following up, Dr. Mallard?"

He hesitated. "I'll try," he said honestly. No guarantees.

A brief silence. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_." With promises to call as soon as possible, he rang off. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and removed the business card Tori had slipped into his hand. Elizabeth wouldn't be at the store (well—shouldn't be), but Tori probably would be. He punched in the number.

"Ealasaid's, Megan speaking. How may I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Megan," he said cordially. "This is Dr. Donald Mallard, calling for Victoria Cameron."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Mallard. Mrs. Cameron isn't in today; her aunt was injured in a fall yesterday, and she went over to the hospital to pick her up. She might be back this afternoon; I'm honestly not sure. But I'd be happy to take a message, unless there's something I can do to help…?"

"No, thank you. I'll try to catch her at home." He sighed and stared at the telephone, his finger on the lever. Might as well get it over with. He punched the numbers: one, seven-oh-three… He took a slow, calming breath.

"Hello?" The voice was soft, but he recognized it right away.

"Rowena? It's Dr. Mallard."

She drew in a short breath. "Dr. Mallard. I'm so glad you called."

He smiled and relaxed somewhat. "How is your grandmother? I called the hospital, found she had… been discharged," he said politely.

"Yeah," she scoffed. "It's called walking out the door." Her voice was low.

"Mmh." Delicate touch needed here. "Is your mother available?"

"Oh, Dr. Mallard, you just missed her. Nana told her to go to the store, leave her in peace. She left about ten minutes ago, once Nana fell asleep."

Asleep. That was probably a good thing. "It looks like she'll recover well," he said cautiously. "Considering that it's an injury where her arm was broken before…"

There was a slight catch of air. "Yes," she said quietly.

"Given the severity of the break, Dr. Ackerman was concerned there might be other damage," he said, trying to coax her. "He x-rayed her ribs, her clavicle… her right arm…"

Heavy silence.

"Rowena… there was something he questioned," he said gently.

"Dr. Mallard?" she whispered, cutting him off.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I need to talk to you," she continued, still whispering. "Privately. Not now. Not on the phone."

His heart almost stopped, his hands ice cold_. __Oh, __God, __please__—__no. __No. __Don__'__t __tell __me __it__'__s __your __mother. __Don__'__t __tell __me __it__'__s __**you**__._ "Of course," he said evenly.

"I told the hospital I won't be in because of Nana. She's asleep. But she's not under medication—she refuses to take it."

_It figures._

"She should be okay if I leave her alone. I'll leave her a note, just in case she wakes up." Her voice was still low. "Can I meet you at your office?"

He laughed shortly. "My dear, an autopsy suite is hardly an appropriate place to meet a young lady."

He could hear her smile. "Hey. Remember—I'm going into medicine, Dr. Mallard? I'm not planning on research, for crying out loud. I can take it."

He managed a genuine smile. "True. But it's still not very hospitable. There's a coffee shop nearby—The Daily Grind? M and New Jersey?"

"I can find it. I have to take the Metro, but I think I can get there in about an hour."

"I'll see you there." He hung up, cognizant of the silence behind him. "Jimmy?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I have errands to run. Please put Staff Sergeant Prentiss to bed and… tidy up. I will see you…" he sighed. "Tomorrow." He glanced over.

Mr. Palmer was getting better at containing his curiosity—and his words. He simply nodded. "Good night, Dr. Mallard."

/ / /

Questions he had to ask… answers he didn't want to hear. He sighed and shook his head slowly. It was nearly four; he was starting to worry. Had she gotten lost? He had flipped through the Sunday paper, sipped spiced cider in lieu of coffee or—ugh, teabag tea—but time had crawled.

"Dr. Mallard, I'm so sorry!" She slipped into the seat across from him even as he started to rise. "I got off at the wrong stop," she said in irritation. "Had to walk back. Mom's car is in the shop, so I loaned her mine." She gave a small laugh. "Nana's van is a little temperamental. She's the only one who can drive it."

He smiled, thinking of his own car. "I completely understand." He waved a waitress over. "And—please. You're welcome to call me Ducky."

Rowena smiled and gave a half-shrug as the waitress came over. She looked over his shoulder and scanned the blackboard. "Uh… Extra large Italian-Viennese-French roast, triple shot, iced. Double-double chocolate, double vanilla, _lots_ of whipped cream. And a cinnamon roll. I'm starved." She was well-versed in their menu.

"Perhaps something more nutritious?" The amount of sugar in her order made his teeth flinch.

"Hey. I left a pot roast in the crock pot."

Fair enough. He made idle chit-chat about articles in the paper until her drink arrived and she had taken a long sip. Once she looked a bit less frazzled, he probed gently. "I'm concerned about your grandmother." She looked up, uncertain. "I'm worried," he said, frankly but not unkindly. "Worried that she might… _injure __herself_… again."

"No—oh, no, it won't—" she broke off in confusion.

"She said it was caused by a mugging. But… the x-ray does not support her story." Her eyes were squeezed shut. "Rowena… you know what happened. Don't you."

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes." Her voice was the barest whisper.

"Please… tell me." There was a long silence. _Oh, __dear __God, __no__…_ He swallowed. "Ro…" he said gently. "If you're afraid… I promise you. Nobody will hurt you. Or your grandmother."

She looked confused, then took tally of the names listed. "You think—no, oh, no! No!" She looked miserable. "It was Ronnie," she finally managed.

He was baffled. "Ronnie?"

She let out a long, quivering breath. "Ronnie. My sister. Bronwyn."

Oh, God. It _had_ been one of her grandchildren—just one he'd forgotten about. "Tell me, please." He reached over and laid a hand on hers.

She picked up her glass with her other hand and took a long drink. "Mom and Dad… Mom had no clue that Baxxter's was going to close. Nobody was hiring, so she started working with Nana… and she liked it. But Mom and Dad, boy… they fought. A lot. They got divorced about a year later. Personally, I was glad. Well… kind of. Ronnie was…" she frowned. "Eight. And she… didn't take it well. At first… everything was okay. But when she got to junior high, she was… a mess." She made a face. "It didn't help that I got skipped up to her grade. Pretty bad when your kid sister is hanging around…" She forced a smile. "So… Mom and Dad were having teacher conferences—about Ronnie—almost every week. She ditched school. She got picked up for shoplifting. She started smoking, hanging around with older kids, real jd's…"

Ducky remembered another middle child, whose parents should have divorced. '_I __tried __to __be __as __un-perfect __as __possible.__' __If __only __you __could __have __been __here __for __your __grandchildren__…_

"It didn't get better when she got into high school. She was—" she looked up and hesitated, turning slightly pink and looking uncomfortable. "Uh, pretty… wild." He could guess. "And she started doing worse—not just pot, she was into meth, cocaine, PCP—"

"Oh, dear God." He pushed his mug away, ill.

"Mom and Dad tried everything. Rehab. Private school. Boot camp, for God's sake. No good. She got kicked out of this boarding school in Maryland the day before it happened—as soon as she was home she hooked up with her loser friends again…" She shut her eyes. "She was up on PCP. I wasn't there, I was at school, she—ah—she was supposed to be off at Shores, the school they stick all the delinquents until they can figure out what to do with them. She ditched, like always. She didn't have a key, she broke into the house, Nana was home, she had the flu… Ronnie was… out of her head. She didn't realize—she didn't mean to hurt her," she said imploringly. She looked at him, eyes wet. "They were in the kitchen, she grabbed Nana—"

"And broke her arm." His voice was flat.

She nodded. "Mom had gone home to check on Nana, she got there right when it—ended. Right after it happened. Nana, oh, it hurt so much—she screamed. And—it was like that woke her up. Ronnie. Got through to her. She realized what she had done… and she ran away. Ran. Away. Right out the door, disappeared… We had no idea where she was, what was happening… She was fifteen."

"You mother must have been out of her mind with worry."

She nodded. "Oh, yeah. It was… intense. I mean, yes, she hurt Nana. But she didn't mean to," she beseeched him. "And we were all so worried about her, maybe… she was hurt. Maybe…" she swallowed. "Maybe even dead," she said with a catch.

He remembered what Tori had said. "But—she's in California, yes?"

She nodded. "She had guardian angels working overtime. She made her way to California, to Uncle Dennys and Auntie Maddie. They said yes, she could stay there. But she had to go through rehab. She had to get into therapy. She had to go back to school. And… she did it all. She's been clean for two and a half years. She got her diploma. And she's holding down a job, a good job. I know Nana has forgiven her. And Mom." She let out a slow breath. "I just don't think she's forgiven herself."

Very insightful for a young woman just old enough to drive. "I can see… why Elizabeth didn't want to tell the doctor the truth." He patted her hand. "I will assure her doctor that what happened will never be repeated. That Elizabeth is in no danger."

She closed her eyes. "Thank you." They sat in silence for a long moment. Finally she smiled faintly. "I'm _so_ glad you came into the store yesterday."

He was still of two minds about that, but: "So am I."

She tipped her head. "I just realized… you're stuck working weekends?" She looked puzzled.

"Yes, and no. I normally have hours Monday through Friday and am on call for the weekends, unless I've arranged for coverage. But I often end up with several days off in a row as compensation for working weekends—so it has its positive elements and negative ones. It's weighted for the positive," he smiled.

"So you have the rest of the day off?"

He nodded. "I plan to go visit my mother. She—" he hesitated. "She's living in Cambridge Care, in Chantilly. She suffers from dementia," he said gently. "We shared a home until late last year, it just became too difficult…"

She slipped her hand out and placed it on top of his hand, giving a gentle squeeze. "It's hard. I understand." She nodded slowly. "How old is she?"

"She… just turned one hundred and one. This summer," he said with some pride. Her mind wasn't what it had been, but she was still going strong. And she did have her good times, her good days—it was easier with a trained staff to care for her. With the stress of 24-hour responsibility—even when he was at work he still felt responsible, and frequently had been—alleviated, it was much easier to enjoy being around her again. "Actually, I was going to stop at the store and pick up some shortbread for her. It was something we enjoyed at afternoon tea with my grandmother back in Scotland."

"That is so sweet…" Her eyes were damp again, this time from sentiment. "Chantilly… it's on my way to school. Do you think—would it be all right if I were to visit her some day?"

He knew he looked startled. He visited his mother at least once a week, more often whenever possible; he was touched that all of his friends at work had been out to see her several times over the past months. Abby and Jimmy were regular visitors; Abby played canasta with her, and had found a deck of cards with numbers large enough for Victoria to read unaided; they played for penny a point, and his mother was up by almost ten dollars. Jimmy often came to visit during the wrestling games, and had given her Circue de Soleil DVDs for her birthday, which she played almost as often as her one-and-only Jeopardy tape. Gibbs, McGee and Ziva often stopped by—and Tony, bless him, had brought her Corgis out for a visit several times. He was quietly astonished to discover a bouquet of flowers on her birthday, signed Mr. and Mrs. Leon Vance. But he'd known most of them for years; he'd only just met Rowena. Still… "That would be very kind, my dear. Thank you." He made an unobtrusive glance at his watch. "You mentioned taking the Metro; can I drop you somewhere on my way to the store?"

"Actually, if you can take me with you there, that would be perfect."

"Of course. It's right on my way," he laughed. He looked at the tab and dropped a ten and a five on the table. He stood and held out a hand, helping her rise from her chair; she looked delighted at the attention. Alas, chivalry was dying of late. He guided her out the door and to the back lot.

She stopped, staring, and looked at him in mild shock. "Yours…?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"This… car… is _so cool!"_ She walked around the Morgan, partly in awe, partly in envy. "Beyond cool!"

He laughed. "Thank you." He opened the passenger door and helped her in.

"Oh, my God! It's a stick shift!" He smiled at her delight. "No, no, mom can't drive a manual. Drew taught me how to this summer—he bought a stick so Mom wouldn't touch it. He thinks she's a lousy driver."

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth—"

"Is to have an _honest_ child," she finished. "I love my mom, but—she's not a great driver. She's okay, just—not on a stick shift. And at least she admits it. She just says, 'I'm perfect at so many things, I have to have a flaw somewhere.'"

He laughed again. "Perfect people," he sighed. "There are so few of us around."

She gave him an amused look. "And it's such a heavy burden, Dr. Mallard."

He held up an admonishing finger. "Ducky."

She hemmed and hawed. "I just feel like I'm being disrespectful."

"I assure you—you're not. I've been 'Ducky' since my school days. I didn't like it back then—but I came to in later years. You have been _invited_ to call me Ducky—so there _is_ no disrespect."

She waggled her head in a 'we'll see' manner.

"So. What do you do at Georgetown?"

She sighed. "I prep lab slides. And I run reports wherever they're needed. Real heavy-duty medical. But, hey, the name will look better than working at Barnes and Noble after school. Just like it is in the rest of the world, the plum spots went to those doing the ol' nepotism tango."

"Familial bonds shouldn't be the primary factor in placement," he said with a frown. "But," he continued before she could interject, "I understand that this is the way of the world. Adapt or die. Very Darwinian."

"It's a rat race," she said morosely. "And the rats are winning."

They pulled up in front of the shop and had a prime parking spot. It was late enough that the afternoon tea crowd had dissipated; a few die-hards sat at tables, lazing over tea and reading materials, but most of the crowd was made up of people dashing in for a last-minute dessert or goodies for Monday morning breakfast. Rowena led him back to the office and through the half-open door. "Surprise!"

Tori certainly looked surprised. "Ro, what are you doing here? How's Nana? Why—"

"She's fine. She was asleep when I left; I left her a note saying I was just running out for a bit. I just wanted to meet up with Dr. Mallard, let him know she was doing okay." She flashed him a smile. "I mean _Ducky_."

"Rowena—"

He recognized the parental tone. "I asked her to call me Ducky. Just as I asked you."

"Lizzie said you hate that name," she murmured, shuffling papers as Rowena ducked out of the office.

"Well, a lot of things have changed over the years," he said lightly.

"True enough." She found what she was looking for, stapled the sheets together and tossed them into a basket. "Why did Ro come all the way down here to meet you? Why didn't she just tell you on the phone that Lizzie was okay?"

"I think she was concerned about waking Elizabeth." He gave her his most innocent look.

She folded her arms and cocked her head. "Dr. Mallard," she said firmly, "I am the mother of three kids. Now, I may not have been able to _prevent_ their bad choices and foolishness, and I may not have been able to really _stop_ their bad choices and foolishness—but that does not mean I didn't _know_ _about_ their bad choices and foolishness." She gave him a long, measured look from behind water-spotted glasses. "Try again."

"I was concerned about an injury Elizabeth had sustained in the past. A break to her right arm." Her gaze dropped. "About three years ago." He let her think about it for a moment. "Rowena explained. And… I know that Elizabeth is in no danger. There was concern that she might be injured again. If there is any question from the medical community… I can assure those involved that everything is fine. Just fine."

She pushed back from her desk and slowly came over to stand next to him. "Thank you." She made a hesitant motion; he opened his arms and allowed her to step close and be wrapped in a hug. "Oh, it's been a hell of a weekend for you, hasn't it?" she mumbled into his shoulder.

"For us all," he said ruefully, pulling back.

"Here you go!" Rowena all but skipped back into the room. She ceremoniously handed over a box. "Plain shortbread, almond shortbread, baby chip shortbread, mint chocolate dipped shortbread—"

"Hmm, I sense a theme," her mother laughed.

"For your mother," Rowena finished importantly.

Tori looked up. "Your mother? If you're mailing them to England—"

"No, no. My mother lives in Chantilly—now." He gave her an abbreviated version of his mother's history.

Tori looked as concerned as her daughter had. "Does she have many visitors? I mean, you, of course—"

"Some of the ladies from the kennel club get out on occasion, but it's not often. They aren't—young," he said diplomatically. "Of course, everyone at NCIS knows her—some better than others," he laughed. "But… they've been very kind over this past year, visit her fairly often. It's been difficult," he admitted.

"Would it be all right if I went out to see her? Or would it be too confusing, a stranger…?"

Like daughter, like mother. "That would be lovely." He smiled up at Rowena. "I'm sure she'd love to meet you both." _Well__—__one __can __hope,_ he thought, remembering others who had received a less than stellar first meeting. He removed his wallet. "Now. What do I owe you?" Tori shook her head and waved him off. "No, I insist, this is your business, you can't be—well, giving away the store—"

"And you're family. Adopted in, anyway," she said.

Rowena leaned over. "Free food. It's our only perk. Well, that and being the guinea pigs if Mom or Nana get a recipe idea."

He smiled. "I really can't—"

"And _I_ insist," Tori said firmly.

Family. He smiled down at the box. It would have been nice—he'd felt that tug for all these years, watching friends marry, have children, grandchildren… He was 'Uncle Ducky' to the children of so many others—but never had any of his own. Yes, if he and Elizabeth had been together, their lives would have been quite different—he wouldn't know Gibbs, Abby or any of the others. He might not even be in the States. He looked up and caught Tori's eye. But he would have relished rearing this young woman, perhaps gifting her with brothers and sisters… His history with Elizabeth gave him instant family status with her and Rowena, even if Elizabeth was still a little distant. He loved his 'family' at NCIS as if they were his own, and was delighted to have the ranks grow. "Thank you," he said simply. An idea that had been bubbling in the back of his mind came to full flower. "And speaking of family…"

Tori leaned against the desk. "Yes?"

He set the box down and turned to Rowena, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "If a position became available—an internship, that is—which offered more, mmmh, cachet than your position at Georgetown... would you be interested?"

"Cachet… in what way?" she asked hesitantly.

"Well, instead of being one name out of how many listing Georgetown as an internship—"

"Thirty-something," she said, her voice a tad disheartened.

"If you were to have an affiliation with an institute that rarely offers an internship and, when it does, only offers one such internship—and has international standing for criminal investigation of which forensic science—which is linked to medical research as well as pathology—is a great part of that investigation—"

A grin slowly spread across her face. "You're kidding. You're kidding? You're not kidding. Say you're not kidding!"

He chuckled. "Now, I can't make any promises," he cautioned. "But… I would be happy to make the highest recommendation in your name. The final choice does rest with our Forensic Specialist and I will freely admit that Abby doesn't usually work well with assistants."

"Oh." Her face fell.

"But—you would be an intern. Not an assistant. Not even a trainee. I think she'll be amenable to the idea." He smiled. "She has a bit of a soft spot for me," he admitted. "And I have no problem playing that up. Nepotism… is not such a bad thing."

"You'd really—" she bit her lip, face contorting as she fought back tears. "Oh, thank you!" She flung her arms around him and gave him a bone-crushing hug.

"Oh, on _that_ note the two of you will get along just fine," he managed around her death grip.

She pulled back. "What should I do? Where do I go? What—"

He laughed. "Would you be able to come by NCIS tomorrow?"

"Absolutely! Any time. It's my short day, I can be there by one, do you want me in the morning? I can ditch—"

"Oh, no you won't!" her mother said hotly, even as Ducky opened his mouth to protest.

"That won't be necessary," he soothed Rowena. "Tomorrow afternoon would be fine. Bring your c.v., transcript, résumé—whatever you have." He pulled out a card, scrawled his private numbers on the back and handed it to her. "That's the main switchboard number, my direct line to Autopsy—and my cell and house numbers are on the back. Call me when you're heading over; don't leave before you reach me, just in case we're out in the field."

"Oh." Her tone was almost reverent.

Tori glanced at the clock. "Do me a favor, sweetie? There are about fifteen boxes on the back counter, they're all marked 'Bishop'—check them off on the order sheet, load them in the back seat. It's a last minute delivery, they can't come in for a pickup."

"Back seat… of my car?" Rowena asked hesitantly.

"I know, it'll be tight, but you have the only game in town. Unless you'd rather drive home and swap with—"

"Oh, _hell_ no," she said, earning a mild glare from her mother. "Sorry." Tori gave her a nod toward the kitchen; a last hug to Ducky and a whispered, "Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou!" and she dashed off.

"That… was very kind." Tori smiled gently. "I can't thank you enough. Putting yourself out like that—"

"Well…" he shrugged toward the box of cookies. "As you said… we're family." He shook his head. "Oh, Tori, I loved your aunt more than life itself," he admitted with a sigh. "You said yourself—maybe this is the hand of God, fate, your grandmother trying to atone for her sins… whatever it is, I plan to make the most of it. You are her niece, her adopted daughter. Rowena is her granddaughter. Call it a favor for an old friend two generations removed. Call it helping the family I never had. Call it an attack of 'Boy Scout-itis,' doing my good deed for the day. Does it matter?"

"No… I suppose not," she admitted. "She and Abby will get along great," she said with a laugh.

If he could convince his favorite Goth scientist to go along with the plan. "You think so?" Not that he disagreed; it was nice to have a second opinion.

"Oh, I know so. Abby and I had quite a chit-chat yesterday until Ziva came back—and even after. They're both darling girls."

He laughed at her description. "Let's see—Abby is only five, maybe six years younger than you, and Ziva only a couple of years beyond that—yet they're 'darling girls?'"

She grinned. "Ducky, I was _born_ older than they are." She stared off a moment and sighed. "And there are days I think your mother would be young in comparison."

"Hard business?" he said sympathetically.

There was a crunching noise from the kitchen and she winced. "There are days." She pushed away from the desk tiredly. "Be right back. I hope."

He wandered the room, curious. It wasn't an office-type office; yes, there were the requisite file cabinets and computer and other items in almost all offices, but there were personal items and photographs galore on walls, tabletops and shelves. The folding frame Tori had shown him yesterday had been set on a bookcase in front of a few dozen cookbooks; next to it was a set of baby pictures in ovals. Fortunately, each had a name written next to it: _Dennys, __Patricia, __Elizabeth, __Victoria, __Andrew, __Bronwyn _and _Rowena_. Decades of baby pictures.

He looked up; more cookbooks (no surprise). In front was another double frame. On one side, a particularly lovely shot of Patricia, apparently from one of her last competitions. She looked a little younger than the Patricia he had known, but at the same time more elegant, more grown-up. She was in a filmy white outfit, the chiffon fluttering about her and making her look like a tall, blonde swan. The other picture was a perfect counterpoint: Patricia, looking like the suburban mom she'd wanted to be, with toddler Tori in front of her, holding her daughter's hands while Tori wobbled on double rail skates with a 'what am I doing?' look on her face. Tish plainly loved being a mom, sharing something she enjoyed… even if for so brief a time. "Oh, Tish… you'd be so proud," he murmured. "They've all really done well." Considering.

He caught sight of a triptych of stiff school photos: on the left, a tot who was undeniably Rowena (the russet waves were a dead giveaway); underneath, the legend read, _Rowena, __kindergarten_. The next picture was a tiny girl with light blonde hair and enormous dark blue eyes: _Bronwyn, __2__nd __grade_. A grinning lad with mussed hair and winking wire framed glasses sitting lopsidedly on his nose completed the trio: _Andrew, __5__th __grade_. Oh, yeah, he could see Tori in all three children, especially her eldest.

Another bookcase; still more cookbooks. Another triple folding frame. Rowena, not such a rounded face as before, minus a tooth: _2nd grade._ Bronwyn, with upswept pigtails like Abby: _4th grade._ Andrew, flashing braces added to the glasses. Poor kid. _7th grade._ Elizabeth was a very proud grandmother.

"Crisis averted." Tori came in, pulling her hair down from her bun as she walked, sweeping it back into a ponytail. "And we are officially closed."

He nodded to the pictures. "Nice photos."

"Drop in the bucket. Lizzie shoots like she owns stock in Kodak. You should see—" She brightened. "You _should_ see! Come home with us—"

"Oh, thank you, my dear—but I do need to be getting along. Visiting hours are allowed until 8:00, but they would really prefer that people come earlier—"

"I understand. It's an open invitation." She handed him the pink box of shortbread. "Don't forget these."

"Never." He leaned over and gave her a small kiss on the cheek; he was already falling into his role as surrogate grandfather with relish. He followed her to the front door, Rowena calling a goodbye from behind stacks of boxes, and quickly slipped out of the darkened store.

In the Morgan, he punched a number on his cell phone. "Dr. Theodore Ackerman, please; Dr. Donald Mallard calling." After a moment, a grin spread across his face. "Ted? Ducky. I have _very_ good news for you…"

* * *

><p>10<p> 


	11. Baroque Minuet in E

**Rating reminder—MA**

**Chapter Eleven: Baroque Minuet in E**

_**Baroque:** Time in music history  
>ranging from the middle<br>of the 16th to the middle  
>of the 17th centuries.<br>Characterized by emotional,  
>flowery music; written in strict form.<br>__**Minuet:** Slow and stately  
>dance music written in triple time.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>May 31, 1969<strong>

Donald sat in the car for a full ten minutes, staring. Sitting. Waiting.

A tasteful blue box sat on the dash, set just behind the steering wheel, almost matching the interior of the car. No ribbon; no wrapping paper. Just a simple box sitting as a silent rebuke. He'd wrapped it several times, then torn off the paper only to try again. It wasn't a birthday gift, a Christmas present—no paper. But it looked so plain… paper. Ribbon. No! He had finally run out of both paper and patience, so—there it sat, an unadorned blue and white rectangle.

_Screw __your __courage __to __the __sticking-place __and __we__'__ll __not __fail._ He rolled his eyes. _Perhaps __**Macbeth **__isn__'__t __quite __the __thought __for __the __day?_

Well he certainly wasn't going to tell himself, 'keep your pecker up.' Even Eddie, with his wild history, hadn't been familiar with that bit of English vs. American English translation faux pas and had caused unintended hilarity the prior week when tossing off the advice to another student. Donald doubted he would be able to hear the phrase in the future without chortling.

_Oh, God.  
><em>_(What if she says no?)  
><em>_She won't say no.  
><em>_(But she could say no—what if she says no?)  
><em>_Well, sitting outside her house until the world stops spinning is one way to avoid disappointment. Come along, Mallard. Open the door. Pick up the box. One foot out—now the other. Good job so far. Walk to the house. Oh, shut the damned door, will you?_

Donald scrambled back and slammed the wide-open car door, the action causing him to scurry up the walkway at breakneck speed. He watched his hand travel toward the doorbell, moving in slow motion. Seconds. Minutes? Hours? He couldn't tell. Finally he depressed the button and was rewarded with the '_bing-__bong__'_ he had come to recognize so well.

"Donald?" It was a faint yell.

He looked around, startled. "Yes?" he called back hesitantly. When there was no reply, he raised his voice. "_**Yes?**_"

"Donald! Come in, I'm—" the rest was garbled.

He hesitantly opened the door and poked in his head. "Elizabeth?"

"I'm on the phone," she called out, her voice clearly vexed. "I've been—no, no, I'm here, I—" her voice changed as she went from speaking to Donald to someone on the telephone. She gave a growl of frustration. "I'm back on hold!"

As he came into the living area, he saw Elizabeth in the bar corner perched on a stool, head propped on a fist while she held the telephone receiver to the ear on the other side of her head. She had the pose of someone who had been sitting in that position for quite some time. He bussed a kiss of encouragement to her forehead in passing, taking the barstool next to her.

"I've been on hold for _ages_," she sighed. "Daddy is at the office, he's talking to the hospital, I'm on hold with—" she broke off as she caught sight of Donald's face. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie. I forgot you don't know what's been going on all—" her face contorted as she censored herself, and he laughed. "_Morning!_" She sighed and looked up at him. "A doctor at Stanford wanted to consult with Dad about a case. No problem. Normally Dad would just drive up, do the consult, come home. Or the other doctor would come down here. We're only talking a six, maybe eight-hour drive. No biggie."

_Depends upon your definition of 'biggie.'_

"But the doctor had surgeries scheduled, so _he_ couldn't drive down _here_. Dad had some sort of department meeting he had rescheduled twice—and getting everyone together is, like, impossible—so he couldn't reschedule, so they decided to just courier a copy of the file down for Dad to review this weekend, et cetera and so forth—" She rolled her eyes. "The courier was supposed to be at the office this morning, Sassy came in on her day off—at seven in the morning—to pick it up and bring it out to Dad. Nine o'clock, the guy is supposed to be there—nothing."

"Why was she—"

"Sassy is efficiency cubed. To the nth degree. She said it also gave her a chance to straighten up Daddy's office without him underfoot. So… by noon, she's flipping out, called Daddy at home—no, no, I'm still here. Thank you," she directed to the telephone. "So… Sassy had to leave by one. Dad went in to hold down the fort and chew out the courier. I'm on hold with the courier company in San Francisco—" she pulled the phone from her face and glared at it. "Long distance, you jerks!" She put the receiver back to her ear. "Dad has been talking to Stanford, trying to track down someone on a Saturday who can verify that the file was picked up yesterday—no dice. This is—hello? Yes, this is Miss Stewart. And you are? Mrs. van Alden. Great, good, fine. Did Teri—she did. Mmm-hmm. Okay, and when he does—oh." Her face fell. "Well, if that's the earliest you expect, that's what we have to deal with. No, no, thank you. I appreciate the effort. You have my number? Yes. Yes, that's my father's number at the office. No, I'll call him and let him know myself. Thank you." She hung up the telephone. "Me, he won't scream at," she grumbled.

Donald unobtrusively set the box on the stool to his left. Perhaps today wasn't the ideal day…

"Daddy, the courier is halfway between here and Phoenix. He has a drop at the med school there, and something to pick up for Berserkeley; he's going to stay overnight and drive back tomorrow morning. But the dispatcher says he'll call in, first, to let them know his layover hotel. She just called Phoenix, he's not there yet, she called every hotel he's likely to stay—no luck. Now, the person I talked to first said there were three deliveries at USC, I'm thinking yours might have gotten mixed up with one of the others? Of course I did." She pulled over a notepad. "Dr. Victoria Campbell. Peds. And Dr. Michael she thinks Macleod but she's not sure. Cardiology. Yep. Will you be home for dinner?" She grinned. "Spaghetti. No… no, Mom's… out. Denny is out with Mad, it's the last weekend of one of her Renaissance things. No, she's helping Gene, they're at a shoot in Griffith Park. But they'll be here for dinner." She covered the phone and whispered, "Eddie? Mandy?"

He nodded. "About six," he whispered back. "Mandy had to cover someone's shift."

"Yep. Donald is already here, Ed and Mandy should be here pretty soon." Well, compared to some schedules, three and a half hours could be considered 'pretty soon.' "Love you, too. Let me know what happens. Bye-bye." She hung up and let out a deep sigh. "You want a drink or anything?"

"Sure, uh, I guess." Now that the opportunity was at hand, all he could think of was to stall. "You?"

She made a face. "I'll stick to Coke."

"Oh, Coke is fine for me."

"Coke it is." She slipped off her seat and ducked behind the bar, pulling two cold drinks from the refrigerator in the corner. She popped the caps and handed him a bottle. "Cheers." She lightly clinked her bottle against his.

He took a small sip, working to get it down past the lump in his throat. He set the bottle on the counter. "Ealasaid… I… you…" He took a steadying breath.

"Donald, what is it?" Her bantering tone was gone. She set down her bottle and came around the counter. "Honey, are you okay? You're all flushed!" She placed a palm on his cheek. "You don't have a fever—"

_Oh, __yes, __I __do._ He grasped her hand, turning it over and pressing it to his cheek. "Oh, Ealasaid, I love you so."

She reached up her other hand, still cool from the chilled bottle, to cup his other cheek. "I love you, too Donald. With all my heart and soul." She looked at him intently. "What's wrong?"

He took both of her hands and held them to his lips, kissing first one then the other. "I love you," he whispered, eyes closed.

"Donald…?" He could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

He turned away and picked up the box. "I know in America, they have pins. Fraternities, I mean," he said, facing away from her. "We have fraternities, I just never bothered to pursue, I don't have, well, the pin is traditional, it goes back—" He was rambling again. "I'm sorry, I'm making a muck of this," he said, shaking his head. He turned back, box in hand. "I love you," he said simply, holding it out.

A shy smile appeared on her face. "For me?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice. He watched her open the box, watched her smile transform to an 'o' of surprise, her eyes widen.

She lightly fingered the bracelet. "Ealasaid… Donald." The smile returned, small and sweet. "Oh, Donald. It's beautiful. Such tiny roses…"

"It's—it's not a pin," he blurted. "And—and the ring I want for you, it's back in Edinburgh, it was my great-grandmother's…" The smile was fading away again, and her eyes were wider than ever before, pupils huge. "Elizabeth—I'm asking—what I'm _trying_ to ask—" he licked his lips nervously. "Will you marry me?"

Silence. Great, resounding silence.

Oh, God. Perhaps he'd taken their relationship more seriously than she had. Or this was too soon. Or—

"What… did you say?" she asked faintly. She was breathing hard.

Or perhaps she hadn't heard him clearly. "Will. You. Marry me?"

She swallowed hard. "I… I…" she half-gasped.

Something in the back of his mind kicked into gear. _She__'__s __hyperventilating. __Her __skin __is __ashy, __pupils __completely __dilated__—_ "Elizabeth!" he grasped her arms and led her, stumbling, into the other room. Her knees were already buckling. She didn't resist as he pushed her into sitting on one of the couches in the conversation pit and forced her head down. "Oh, Lord, don't faint," he half-moaned, half-begged.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she repeated blankly, eyes closed. She was gulping air and had clenched the thin box so tightly she was in danger of crushing it. "Will you… marry me?" she said in bewildered tones.

Donald forced a smile. "Well—if _you__'__re_ asking _me_…"

"Did you—did you just really—?"

He realized he was kneeling in front of her and almost laughed. How traditional. He reached up and took her face in his hands, a little worried at the glint of tears in her eyes. "Ealasaid," he said softly. "I love you. More than any woman I've ever known. More than I thought I could love any one person. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I know—I know we haven't known each other long," he said hesitantly. He stared into her eyes, those beautiful eyes that promised everything in the world from tranquility to passion, from solace to laughter. "But I fell in love with you the moment we met… and I wanted you for my wife one moment later. I can't imagine the rest of my life without you."

"Oh, Donald." She blinked, and twin tears spilled down her cheeks. "After that, could any woman say no?" she laughed through her tears. He found himself the recipient of a deep, passionate kiss. "Donald Mallard… I love you. I love you, I love you, I _love_ you—more than words can tell. I want to spend forever with you—and the next forever, and the one after that," she laughed, swiping at the tears with the back of her wrist.

He smiled. "So… that's a yes?"

She almost fell off the couch, throwing her arms around him. "Yes!" she shouted, her momentum knocking them both to the floor.

They both scrambled about for the box with its precious wares. Donald helped her rise and sat her back on the couch, sitting close next to her. He took her left hand and started to fasten the silver bracelet on her wrist. "I can't put it on your ring finger…"

"Close enough." She put her hand on his, stopping him. She turned to bracelet over so the _Ealasaid_ faced up. "That way… you'll be closer to me." She left her hand on his for a moment, staring. "You'll be with me all day… all night. I'll never take it off."

"Not even for your engagement ring?" he teased to cover his definite interest in his proxy staying close to her all day… all night.

She looked up from her lowered face. "Oh, I plan on having that ring right here," she said tapping her fourth finger. "But I'll never take this off. No matter what. _Never_."

He fastened the stiff catch. "You might not be able to," he murmured, and she laughed. "I'll speak to your father tonight." He let out a breath. "Will he—object?"

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "He'll probably want us to wait a while," she cautioned.

"So long as the word is 'yes' and not 'no'—I can live with waiting." He hesitated. "What about your mother?"

She exhaled slowly. "I doubt… that any man will meet with my mother's approval," she said slowly. "And I can live with that." Her gaze searched his face. "Can you?"

He nodded. Of course, it would be nice to get along with all of his in-laws… but the fact that nobody else was on Julia's good side (she barely tolerated Madalena, the goodwill ambassador to the known universe) gave him a rather _c__'__est __la __vie_ attitude. "Maybe she'll come around in time."

"Oink. Flap," Elizabeth muttered, reaching over to set the empty box on the end table.

That startled him out of his romantic reverie. "I beg your pardon?" he laughed.

She cocked her head. "When. Pigs. Fly," she said earnestly.

He laughed roundly. "Has anyone ever told you you're a little crazy?"

"Mmh. Just think, you want to marry a mental." She waggled her eyebrows at him.

"Well, I think it's a matter of like attracting like…"

"Could be." She reached up and brushed her fingertip over his lips. Amazing how arousing a light touch like that could be. "Do you think it's safe for two crazy people to kiss?"

"I'm willing to risk it." He drew her close, pulling her half onto his lap and touched a soft kiss to her upper lip, then the bottom… she eagerly took the hint, inviting him in for hungry caresses that left him desperate for more. Slow and sweet… hot and eager. Nobody would be home for quite a while, and he could live on her kisses. Soft, full lips, slick pearls of teeth—oh, that lovely quiver every time he grazed the roof of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. He sometimes wondered if she didn't climax from that, alone.

He shifted slightly, moving her more toward the left—that much easier to allow his right hand to wander free, stroking her shoulder, her throat, toying with the cord that held the neckline of her blouse tied shut… He smiled against her lips as his hands collided with hers, fumbling to untie a second cord that gathered the soft gauze beneath her breasts. Not just welcomed—encouraged.

He reached around her, unhooking the back of her bra, kissing her ear as he did. "Touch me, Donald?" she whispered in his ear. "It feels so good..." She didn't have to ask twice. He slipped the bra up, grasping a freed breast, forcing himself to gentle his touch. God, he wanted her so desperately… He grinned as she grabbed the mass of fabric and yanked up, tossing aside the tangled blouse and bra then lowered his face to kiss her breasts, one side then the other, light touches to the soft flesh. He was delighted by her tiny gasps of pleasure, the sharp "_Oh!_" as he finally captured a stiffened nipple in his mouth, suckling languidly. "Oh! Oh, Donald!" She was gasping, almost panting, quivering under his touch. She reached up to stroke his hair and her hand was shaking.

He gently pushed her onto the curved seat of the sofa, following her down, their bodies twining. "You taste amazing." He blew a soft kiss of air over her wet skin, delighting when she groaned and arched up for more of his touch. "Just wonderful…" He reached up to pull her into a deep kiss, continuing to gently knead her breast with one hand, the other sliding down her hip. He pressed close, the rise of his erection nudging her hip though his slacks. She groaned softly, whether from the shift of his hips or the hand he was sliding up beneath her skirt he wasn't sure. Frankly, he didn't care—she was enjoying it, regardless. "Oh, yes," he breathed. His hand slipped over her hip as she drew her leg up slightly, foot nestling behind his calf, giving him easier access. He still had the sneaking suspicion she was a virgin—but she certainly had an idea of what to do.

She definitely had ideas. As his fingers inched up the soft flesh of her inner thigh, her own hands were wandering. One stroked the hand that still caressed her breast, encouraging the attention, the other—

"Oh, God," he groaned as she cupped the bulge of his erection. "Oh—oh, yes, just like that," he encouraged as she stroked him slowly.

"Do you want me to—to touch you?" she asked hesitantly, fingers hovering near the button on the waistband.

_Yes__—__yes, __oh, __yes, __oh, __yes._ "No," he said reluctantly. "Not—not yet, love." _Touch __me __now __and __I__'__ll __explode._ "But that—oh, that feels wonderful," he said. She caressed the outside of his slacks again and he almost purred. "Oh, yes. _Yes_." It was an awkward angle, but it still felt fabulous. He quickly let his hand flit up to cover the cleft between her legs and was rewarded with a loud gasp. Oh, yes… she was definitely enjoying things. He stroked the silky fabric, loving the moist heat at his fingertips.

Elizabeth threw her head back. "Oh, _Donald_… oh…" It was a low moan. He slipped his fingers under the elastic, touching her soft folds. Oh, my. Very interested. She was wet and hot and oh, so welcoming. He gave a light stroke to her clitoris and she writhed at the touch. He slipped his hand back to her thigh, started to edge the panties down. "Oh… Don't…"

He froze. _Don__'__t?_ Oh, no, _no_…

"Don't stop!" she gasped. "Oh, please, don't stop!"

He slipped his hand between the silken knickers and the swell of her buttocks, urging her to lift her hips. She complied, and when the damp fabric had fallen far enough she kicked it aside, leaving her open for greater attentions, attentions he was delighted to pay. He stroked her more readily, falling into an easy rhythm with the shifting of her hips. He was a little unhappy to have her hand stop caressing his swollen cock, but he wasn't sure how much more of that he would have been able to take—and she _was_ a bit distracted.

He shifted to a more comfortable position, reluctantly slipping his arm from around her back (and away from that sweet, firm breast) and using it to brace himself somewhat, laying her more supine as he did. She reached down and pressed his hand against her. "Please," she whispered, her voice ragged.

"Oh… don't worry, my love," he chuckled. He kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth and sucking slowly. "I have much more to share…" He stroked her slick skin, up and down, slowly… then slipped a finger back, gently pressing it into her body. He was rewarded with a low groan, and she clutched at his shoulder. "Nice," he murmured. "So nice..." Back to stroking her swollen clitoris for several touches… then another gentle, shallow thrust, just a little more deeply than before. Slow and easy, but a mounting arousal… by the time he had reached the point of sliding a second finger in with the first, pressing in deeply with each thrust (and assuring himself that even if she was still a virgin, she wouldn't be hurt the first time they made love), she was writhing under him, gasping for breath. "I told you I have more to share," he murmured in her ear, even as his fingertip continued to flick against the nub at the tip of her clitoris. "And I _promise_ you'll like this."

"Donald…?" she sounded almost uneasy as he pulled away, slipping down her body. "What—"

"Shh…" He positioned himself between her legs, pressing his lips to her sweetness before she could say anything else. He heard her squeak in surprise, then actually yelp as he began flicking his tongue over the quivering flesh. Oh, yeah—she was close, damned close. He slid his fingers in as far as he could while he continued to kiss and suck her, tongue moving quickly. It only took a few seconds to push her over the edge and she climaxed, hard, muscles clamping down on his fingers. He imagined how it would feel to have his penis where his fingers rested, her body clenching around him… he almost came at the thought.

He rubbed his cheek against the tightly curled hair and moved over to kiss her hip. "I told you you'd like it."

"God, Donald." She was still gasping. "That was… oh, my God."

"See… women… are lucky." He dropped slow, wet kisses over her leg, tongue making lazy trails as he moved from hip to knee. He moved over to the other leg, repeating the same moves heading back up her body. "They can come over… and over… and over…" He lightly sucked her still throbbing flesh.

"Ooooooh.." It was a long, drawn-out groan, and she clutched unsuccessfully at the smooth fabric of the couch. He continued to tease her—it was so soon after her first orgasm, it only took a few strokes to make her come again. "Oh! Oh… _ohhhhh_," she sighed as the waves of pleasure coursed through her body. She lay back, almost exhausted. For several minutes she lay there, panting. "Donald?" she finally managed.

"Yes, my love?" He stroked her stomach and she made an appreciative noise.

"Does it feel as good for you?"

"When I lick you?" he smiled. He had never cared for the phrase 'go down.' It sounded like a football maneuver. "Oh, yes." He knew some men looked at it as a way of getting more sex from their partners, or a way of guilting them into reciprocal oral sex—I did it for you, you do it for me—but he enjoyed giving his partner pleasure. His smile broadened. Especially today.

"No. No, I mean…" she trailed off, blush mounting on her cheeks as she glanced toward his groin and back up.

Ah. He moved up to nestle her in his arms, kissing her ear. "Yes," he whispered, lightly nipping the gentle curve.

"Would—would you like me to?"

_Well, __if __you __ask __the __second __member __of __this __firm, __he__'__ll __say __yes. __He__'__s __already __ready __for __action._ "Have you ever done this before?" From her slightly shocked (but nonetheless pleased) reaction, he was sure of the answer—there was no way she'd had a prior partner who had given her orgasms like that.

"No," she said, even more hesitantly.

"Let's… wait a bit. Take things slowly."

She managed a grin. "This… is taking things slowly?"

He laughed. Well, true—she did rather look like the ravaged heroine of a particularly tawdry book, naked from the waist up, skirts hiked up to her hips and her womanhood exposed. "But…" he whispered in her ear. "…did you like it?"

"Oh, God, Donald… that was fantastic. I never dreamed—I mean, I've heard—" her cheeks flamed again.

Hmm. So girls traded tales, too. Good. "I'm glad. I like to make you feel good." He figured this was as good a time as any. "Ealasaid?"

She snuggled against his chest. "Mmmh?"

"Are you a virgin?" He stroked her back, trying to let her silently know that no matter what the answer, he was still with her.

Finally: "Yes." She caught a breath. "But—I want it to be with you." She sat up and looked him square in the eye. Her gaze was serious. "_I __am __your __wife_. It doesn't matter if we have to wait—or how long we have to wait." She held up her left hand, the afternoon light coming through the glass doors glinting off the shiny edges of the charm. "When you put this on my wrist… I became your wife. Now. Forever." She leaned forward and kissed him, then drew back, startled.

He immediately knew the cause. "That's _you_," he said gently. "That's how you taste." He touched a finger to her lips. "It's the most beautiful taste in the world."

She hesitated a moment, then leaned over and kissed him again. Hesitant at first… then another kiss, bolder this time. She was quickly caught up in the moment, hands running down his shirt, rapidly flicking open buttons. "Please, Donald," she begged. "Make me your wife." He smiled; this was her genteel way of asking him to make love to her. (He had a feeling it would be quite some time before she would use the term "fuck" beyond the story of her surprised scream in the kitchen when a slammed door had caused the punchbowl set to dive from its 13' height and crash around her.)

"I'd love to." He kissed her, hard, drawing her hand back to his groin. His erection had abated somewhat, but he knew it would only take a few caresses—

"Hell-oooo!"

Donald and Elizabeth froze. "Tish," she mouthed.

"Bizzzzz-yyyyyy… where _arrrrrrrre_ you," she yelled. The front door slammed like a cannon shot.

Oh, this was going to be bad. Tish might be a bit of a wild child (what 'might be'—and what 'bit?'), but even she would be a little shocked if she walked into the room.

Forget a little. A lot.

"Hey! Kiddo! Are you upstairs?" Her voice was still at the kind of decibels associated with jets or passing trains. "Oh, honey—take that stuff in the kitchen. It needs to go in the freezer. You'll have to rearrange things." There was a muffled reply. "No, it'll all melt! It won't take you three minutes. Well, you tend to be a little picky, call it five. And picky is not a bad thing, I like the fact that you _take __your __time_ and _arrange __things __carefully_."

Donald shot his newly minted fiancée a glance. Either his imagination was in overdrive, or Tish was giving them an out.

"Biz?" she yelled. "E-_**LIZ**_-a-beth!" She stomped up the stairs, taking each step in turn and treading heavily.

Elizabeth made a mad dive for her bra and top, dressing in record time, and yanking her underwear back in place. "Well?" she hissed as she retied her shirt. She swallowed hard and gestured to herself. "Damn!" She yanked her skirt where it had become caught in her panties, draping up her hip like a showgirl.

"Brush your hair. Or tie it back," he advised in a low voice. She looked like a wild Gypsy dancer, too.

"You, um—" she winced. "You might want to…" She waved toward the powder room.

Ah. He ducked inside and almost flinched at his reflection. A quick face scrub, comb fingers through hair—relatively presentable. Tish's sudden voice had proved as effective as a dunk in a rain barrel; no problems on _that_ score. When he came back out, Elizabeth had scavenged a rubber band from somewhere and looked reasonably respectable with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Of course, if anyone commented on her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks—

Her eyes widened. "Oh, crap," she muttered. She pointed to his shoulder. He dashed back to the bathroom, looking more closely in the mirror.

No swimming for him, today. At some point Elizabeth had gotten enthusiastic about their loving and had given him a couple of nips right at the curve above his clavicle. Not a big hickey—but definitely not something that could be readily explained. He returned to the room, doing up the final buttons of his shirt as he walked, wishing in vain for a tie.

"Sorry," she said softly, looking up at him.

He grinned down at her. "I'm not." He twined his hand with hers, walking resolutely out to the smaller living room.

Tish was just thumping her way back downstairs. "There you are!" she said brightly. "I can't bake, but I just had a yen… so we stopped at Baskin-Robbins and got an ice cream cake." She flicked her eyebrows expressively. "Yum."

"Sounds… great." Elizabeth matched her perky for perky. The telephone rang and she dove for it. "Stewart residence. Daddy!"

Tish had turned away, and didn't see Elizabeth's guilty look. But her voice was another thing.

"No, I—I just slipped off the stool." She listened for a moment. "Oh, that's great!" She covered the bottom half of the receiver. "The report was stuck to another envelope. It was up there the whole time." She turned back to the call. "No, no problem. It's spaghetti; the sauce can stay on the stove forever. Okay, six. Six-ish." She hung up the phone. "Okay, Dad will be home around six, that's when Eddie and Mandy should be here—Mom should be back around five, five-thirty…"

"And it all comes together in the Times," her sister joked, quoting an advertising slogan for one of the major local papers.

"Yep." Elizabeth handed Donald his Coke and picked up her own. A little warm, but still drinkable.

"Hellllooooo… what is this?" Tish pointed to the bracelet on Elizabeth's wrist.

Elizabeth colored prettily and held her arm out for inspection. "It's from Donald," she said primly. "It's… sort of a pre-engagement ring token."

Tish turned from admiring the bracelet to give Donald a measured look. "Oh, really?" She slowly grinned. "Engagement?"

"I… asked Elizabeth to be my wife. She said yes." He took a sip of his drink. "Of course, we still need to talk with your father."

"Of course." She waved a hand. "Don't worry. Daddy will probably bluster a bit about his youngest getting hitched, but he'll say yes." She gave her sister a hug. "Congratulations! Oops. I mean, felicitations." She turned and pointed at Donald. "You, I congratulate."

He grinned. "Thank you."

Tish sniffed the air uncertainly, and Elizabeth looked panicked. "Uh oh," she muttered, running for the kitchen.

"So. You're engaged," Tish said with a grin.

"Mm-hmm."

"In what?" She locked his gaze.

He stopped, bottle halfway to his lips. He suddenly remembered a t-shirt he'd seen on a student in the dorm: a cartoon of _Star __Trek__'__s_ Mr. Spock saying, "The fecal matter shall shortly impact the mechanical oscillating device which aids air movement."

The shit was about to hit the fan. Big time.

"Ah…" He had no stall, no dodge, no feint in mind. Nothing. Zip. Nada.

"Listen." She moved closer. "I don't blame you guys. Especially Liz. You're a babe." She gave him what could only be described as a horny look.

"Tish—!"

She grinned. "Just had to yank your chain a little, Don. But—take it from one who has been almost caught too many times." She held up her fingers a scant quarter-inch apart. "Don't do it. Not here. If Dad had come home—" she rolled her eyes. "Even worse… Mom." She snorted. "Mom has a really skewed look at morality. It's perfectly fine for her to screw the tennis pro, the golf pro, the _caddy_, the fucking _pool__boy_—but her daughters better not have sex, even if they're engaged." She thought a moment. "Probably not when we're married, either." She gave him a sardonic look. "Yeah, I have a white dress for the wedding. Sure… fine. Whatever. Apparently Gene and I are playing Monopoly when I spend the night at his place."

He choked and felt the burn of the cola through his nasal passages.

"Ooh, sorry!" She grabbed a handful of tissues and shoved them into his hand. "I'm just saying—don't bring it here." She cocked her head. "Gene is going on an out of town shoot next weekend, I'm going with him. We could leave you the keys…"

"No, no, that's fine," he said hastily.

She shrugged. "Your choice." She turned to go into the kitchen. "Oh, Don—" He looked back. "Your shirt is buttoned cockeyed." She winked and headed off through the dining room.

He quickly looked down. Damn. The buttonholes _were_ misaligned. If Dr. Stewart had seen that, they wouldn't be asking about a wedding… they'd be planning a funeral.

/ / /

Before Dr. Stewart could get home and give Donald the 'you were making out with my daughter' third degree of doom, he was the inadvertent recipient of a decent sympathy vote cover.

The spaghetti sauce safely simmering on the stove (Donald had a suspicion Tish had smelled something 'burning' to get Elizabeth out of the room for a few minutes), the four started an impromptu game of tag football in the streets, men against women. Elizabeth had to be dragged into the game by Tish, who protested that two against one would hardly be fair.

"Hey, Tish? The way I play, it will _still_ be two against one."

Tish grabbed her sister and whispered something in her ear, grinning. Elizabeth turned dark red, but laughed and looked over at Donald.

"Should I be worried?"

Gene laughed. "With those two? Oh, yeah."

They spread out across the street, several houses between them. Gene dropped the football and gave it a mighty kick. "Nice one, mate!" They ran forward—but Tish had made a leap in the air and snagged the ball.

"One – zero," she called triumphantly. She handed the ball to her sister, who tried in vain to push it back. No luck. Sighing, Elizabeth dropped the ball—and her foot managed to connect. Her joy was short-lived; it made an arc for about two feet, then fell to the street and dribbled to a stop. "I told you I reek at sports," she complained. She kicked it where it lay and it bobbled its way several car lengths. Gene ran forward and neatly grabbed the ball, running back and tossing it to Donald.

He gave the ball a small toss upward before letting it fall, rather on the lines of a good tennis serve. He glanced over at Elizabeth, who gave him a winning smile—and he let the ball tall to the ground, untouched.

"Oh, Lord," Gene moaned. "Young love."

"Hey," he laughed, retrieving the ball. "I'm older than you are."

"Please. Tish and I have been dating almost two years. Compared to you guys, we're the old fogey married couple. Now, concentrate!"

This time he made a good kick, but it went spiraling wacky. It went almost straight up like an Atlas rocket, hovered for a split second, then came twirling back to earth.

"I've got it!"

"Got it!"

"Me!"

"Oh, God…!"

The four converged in the center of the street, Elizabeth actually ducking and covering her head halfway there. The football landed without anyone touching it, bounced and ricocheted off—straight toward Elizabeth. She screeched in fear—and the ball landed smack against her chest.

"Way to go, sis!" Tish yelled

Elizabeth was still hugging the ball, with an amazed 'where the hell did this come from?' look on her face. "Where were you in high school?" she scolded. She handed the ball to her sister. "_You_ kick."

"Okay, but you'd better run for it this time. You're on a roll." Tish tossed the ball, gave a hard kick— "Oh, shit!" she yelled. The ball was heading for their front yard, and the windows on the front of the house. All four of them sprinted for the wayward ball—Elizabeth, having started from the closest point, was actually going to get there first.

Donald pulled out his days as a runner and put forth a mad last dash. He didn't care who got the points—he just had a horrible vision of Elizabeth trying to avoid the ball at the last second and an explosion of broken glass following shortly. As he, the ball and Elizabeth all collided on the grass, his only coherent thought was, _I __thought __this __was __**tag **__football._This was followed shortly by ferocious barking, the feeling he'd been knocked over again, this time by a double lorry, and Elizabeth screaming, "Donald! Robbie, no!"

Only a few moments later, he sat up on the grass, hesitantly moving his aching shoulder. "Wow!" Robbie lay nearby, flattened as far down as he could, paws covering his nose. He looked up at Donald with the most beseeching eyes imaginable. He had never even growled in Donald's presence before; it was hard to tell which one of them was more stunned.

"Oh, Donald!" Elizabeth fussed around him, unbuttoning his shirt and looking closely. "Well… he didn't bite you, looks like you got a couple of claw scrapes when he tackled you. Oh, I am so sorry! He's never—"

"He was just protecting you, sweetheart." He gave his shirt a rueful look; there were several jagged tears in it. "I'd say this is ready for the rubbish."

"Let's get you inside, get that cleaned up…" Elizabeth was definitely a doctor's daughter. He smiled to himself; she'd make a great doctor's wife, too.

He pushed off the lawn, wincing. Elizabeth made sure he was all right, then ran toward the house to collect what she needed to take care of his injuries. When he walked past, Robbie tried to sink further into the ground. Donald gave a slight whistle and the collie's ears pricked up. "Come on, old boy. Into the house with you." The dog slowly stood, looking at Donald apprehensively. Whoever said animals were 'dumb creatures' could only mean it was from a lack of human speech. Robbie knew that he was in the proverbial doghouse. "All's forgiven. Can't blame you for protecting her. But listen—when I'm around, that's my job. You just pick up the slack the rest of the time, hear?" Robbie's lush tail wagged hesitantly at the cordial tone. "Come on." Donald snapped his fingers and slapped a leg, heading off to the house. Robbie loped by his side, his gaze swearing eternal fealty.

Elizabeth helped him slip out of his shirt. After a moment, she declared that his undershirt had to go, too. "It looks less indecorous," she said firmly.

Well, that was the theory, anyway. When Mrs. Stewart traipsed in the front door a few minutes later, this time in a fetching cream blouse and tan slacks set and lugging a cart of golf clubs behind her, she froze at the tableau in the living room. "_What_… is going _on?_"

Tish spun around, hand on hip. "We were playing tag football. Robbie decided to make it tackle football. Donald is very, very lucky. He could have been badly hurt!" She sounded absolutely indignant. Best defense: strong offense.

Donald had a feeling visions of lawsuits were dancing in front of Julia Stewart's eyes. "Oh. Oh, dear. Are—are you all right?" She shoved the clubs into a corner.

"Oh, I'm fine, ma'am. Robbie just misinterp—" he broke off when Elizabeth gave him a mouthed 'no,' her back to her mother. "He… didn't intend to hurt me," he said slowly. "Things happen."

"Yes, but—oh, my." She stood over them and made a face, shuddering and turning away. "Oh, that's awful." Donald glanced down; it wasn't that bad. It handily covered Elizabeth's little love nips, but compared to the damage his grandmother's Corgis had done to him when he was ten, this was nothing. "I need a drink," she said, heading toward the bar.

If her breath was any indication, the last thing she needed was another drink. Frankly, it scared him to death that she got behind the wheel of the car after hoisting however many she did at the tennis club or golf club or wherever she spent her days. He had always thought that people could drink a bit and still handle a car; Julia Stewart was causing him to rapidly revise that opinion.

When she returned, highball glass in hand (gin and tonic over ice, about a five to one ratio—ugh), she picked up his damaged shirt with her fingertips. "Well, we certainly can't send you home dressed like that," she murmured. "What will the neighbors say?"

Behind her mother, Tish rolled her eyes. Donald bit his lip to keep from laughing. Elizabeth looked up worriedly; "Did I hurt you?"

Good cover. "I'm fine." He patted the hand she had rested on his shoulder, finishing her expert taping job.

"Patricia." When her mother turned around, Tish's face was a mask of bland obedience. "Run up to Dennys's room. Find one of his shirts for—" she looked puzzled.

"Donald," Tish said through gritted teeth. Elizabeth's eyes were dark with repressed anger.

"I'm so sorry, my dear boy, there have been so many of you this year—it just… blurs together." She laughed, a tinkling sound that probably delighted her younger paramours but left him cold. Still, he managed a polite smile and a nod. "Find a _nice_ shirt," she elaborated to Tish, who hurried off before she said or did something she'd regret. "Oh, Donald, you—you are going to be all right, won't you?"

Huh. It was the first time she'd gotten his name correct. Before he could answer, Elizabeth jumped up. "Mother, Robbie tackled him to the ground! The fact that he didn't get bitten is—it's a miracle!"

Robbie, hearing his name, looked up from his spot on the floor next to Donald's feet and thumped his tail, whining softly.

"I, ah, he knows he did something wrong," Elizabeth said quickly. Robbie looked anything but vicious. "He's usually a very good dog. He just got a little rambunctious. It was an accident. I'm _sure_ Donald understands that."

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," he said earnestly. Elizabeth scrunched up her face in pain and mouthed 'ow' at him. He grimaced slightly and reached for his shoulder and she winked.

Donald's 'pain' made Julia flutter all the more. "Oh—oh, you poor, poor boy. Please don't—we can't—we'll take care of _everything_," she gushed. "Don't you worry. Everything will be—everything will be just fine." Nervously chewing a knuckle, she stumbled off toward the patio.

"If I may make a suggestion," Gene murmured as Tish came back with an embroidered Mexican shirt that was quite a bit more festive than Donald's norm, "don't take those bandages off for the next couple of weeks."

Donald snickered. "Gene, I don't even need them now. I'll be fine by tomorrow." He slipped on the shirt; he had to admit, it was easy to put on and very comfortable

Gene grinned. "Yeah, but the evil not-stepmother won't know that. Right now, _her __dog_ attacked you. You have a perfect ten score in the Olympic guilt games. Don't blow it."

A part of him felt just a tad devious. But a larger part felt completely justified; if Julia weren't so difficult to live with, they wouldn't need to go to such lengths to make things pleasant. "You've known her longer."

Tish gave a small snort. "Yeah, and he still wants to marry me."

Gene opened his mouth to make what probably would have been a pithy reply but was cut off by the door opening. "Hail the conquering hero," Dr. Stewart called out tiredly. He strolled in, tugging at his tie and slipping it off.

"Hey, Daddy," Elizabeth called.

He noticed the small group and his eyes lit on the medical items on the table. "What happened?" he asked, all business.

"Robbie was a little zealous in his tackle," Donald joked.

"We had a rebound go toward the window," Tish explained. "Bizzy and Donald kind of collided, and Robbie thought Don was tackling Biz, not the ball."

"Mmmh. He is rather protective of you kids," he murmured, poking about gently at the bandaging. "Break the skin?"

"Just some scratches," Donald assured him.

"Tetanus shot?"

"Before I left England, sir."

"Mmh. I think you'll live." He gave Elizabeth a smile. "Nice job, hon."

She smiled up at him. "Um, mom is kind of under the impression that… Robbie… really smacked Donald down to the ground."

"He's hurt but soldiering on," Tish added dramatically.

Their father nodded slowly. "Wise move," he said with a rueful laugh. As he straightened, he caught sight of the bracelet on Elizabeth's wrist. "What ho…" he said softly. He bent back down and reached out with a fingertip to touch the charm. "Something new has been added…" He gave it a slight nudge and the flat piece turned over revealing the name _Donald_ on the other side. "Hmm," he said neutrally. "By the way… I ran into young Mr. Langley and Miss Galton while I was tracking down my errant report. He and I have already had our weekly debriefing, and I let them out of detention." He winked. "All the more spaghetti for me." As he stood up again, he briefly caught Donald's eye and give him the merest flick of an eyebrow.

Gene and Tish had disappeared as neatly as if they had transported up to the starship Enterprise. One moment they were there, the next—pfft. "Dr. Stewart," Donald said evenly, "I'd like to speak with you. Privately, sir."

Elizabeth slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. "Donald and I would _both_ like to speak with you."

While he felt that it was his duty to talk to her father alone—man-to-man—he knew that, like the subterfuge with her mother, there were probably family dynamics at play that made it wise for him to follow her lead. "Sir?"

Dr. Stewart gave them a small smile. "Why don't we go into my study, where we can be more private."

A quiet display of solidarity, he and Elizabeth kept their hands clasped together as they followed her father to the other side of the house, Dr. Stewart stopping at the bar for a drink on the way. _Probably __thinking,__ '__I__'__m __going __to __need __this,__'_ Donald thought. _I __almost __wish __I __had __one, __too._

In his study—other than the kitchen, the most welcoming room in the house—Dr. Stewart slipped into the swivel chair behind his desk, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. He looked up at Donald with mild expectation.

Donald licked suddenly dry lips and swallowed. "Sir—Dr. Stewart—I—" He coughed nervously. "I have asked Elizabeth to marry me, sir. And she has said yes." Dr. Stewart flashed a brief smile. "We—we would like your blessing, sir."

He nodded slowly, silent. "Hmm." Another long silence. "Marriage." He took a long, deep breath and let it out just as slowly. "I have to say… I'm not terribly surprised." He took a sip of his drink, eyes watching Donald over the rim of the glass. "I saw you the first night. You couldn't keep your eyes off her." Donald knew he was turning scarlet. "And Lizzie—good God." He shook his head. "She wouldn't shut up about you for the next week. Donald _this_, Donald _that_—" he teased

"Daddy—"

"I think I could tell you your nanny's name—"

"_Daddy!_"

"So… no. I'm not surprised." His smile faded somewhat. "I'm not entirely pleased…"

Elizabeth's hand tightened around his. He could tell she was going to make a stand, say something she might regret, and squeezed her hand. _Don__'__t_, he implored silently. _Let __this __play __out._

"Four weeks—it's so sudden. You barely know each other. And—it's hard to let go of your children. Your youngest, especially. But…" He sighed. "It's plain you're in love. But—love isn't enough. Being the wife of a doctor—" his mouth twitched. "It's not the… easiest job in the world. Not everyone has a sail cut for that rigging."

"I do," she said firmly. God; he couldn't wait to hear her say those two words in front of a minister.

"Yes… I think you do." He turned his gaze back to Donald. "And you… You're a good lad. Solid. Dependable. Serious. People think that all med students are that way—bosh. To a certain degree, yes, because of the amount of studying and learning they have to cram in their brains, the hours needed. But they can be just as stupid and flighty as the art major across the hall." He pointed at Donald. "I think you were probably the most adult one in your class from the time you started school."

Donald couldn't really argue with him on that score.

"And then we have Miss Bizzy. Elizabeth. My baby." He laughed ruefully. "Who walked into the kitchen at—what, ten? Eleven?—and said, 'I can cook better than this,' and took over the care and feeding of the family from there on out."

She stared at the ground, embarrassed. "Ten," she finally admitted. She glanced at Donald. "It was for a Girl Scout badge," she murmured.

Dr. Stewart sighed. "Oh… I shall miss your cooking…" He smiled into the distance. "But…" He sighed and looked up. "I can give you my… _conditional_ blessing."

"Thank you, sir."

"I would like to see Elizabeth finish her education, first."

Elizabeth caught a small gasp. "Four years…? We have to wait—_four __years?_"

He shook his head. "I said, 'I would like.' I realize that four years would seem insurmountable. I am willing to compromise and say two." He looked at her sternly. "In two years, you will be—"

"That's—that's fine," she interrupted. She sighed. "Gene and Tish have been dating and engaged for two years," she said, looking up at Donald hopefully.

He smiled down at her pleading eyes. "I'm willing to wait." He was willing to wait forever, but her father didn't need to know that.

"And… Elizabeth must finish her degree after you get married. I'll brook no arguments on that score."

"No, sir. No disagreement from this quarter." He wasn't the type to want a dumb, docile wife. He liked her flashes of spirit, knew that his mother would encourage them wholeheartedly, and enjoyed the fact that she was intelligent and well read.

"What are your plans?" Dr. Stewart sounded melancholy. "Stay in England? Move here?"

"That's something Elizabeth and I need to discuss, sir. I'm not going to make an arbitrary decision and insist she follow."

Dr. Stewart looked a little startled—and pleased. "Hmm. Nice." He swirled his drink. "Donald… I'd like a minute or two with my daughter, please?" He looked up. "We can do your weekly summary after dinner."

"Certainly, sir." He contented himself with a long hug and a brief kiss, the most he felt Dr. Stewart's sensibilities could stand.

He had only passed the staircase when Tish pounced on him from the party room. She had changed into a bathing suit and he could hear Gene splashing about in the pool. "Well? How did it go? You're still standing, that's a good start."

He grinned at her. "Two years from now, you and I will be family."

"Hot damn." She made a face. "Two years? That sucks."

"Well, you and Gene have been going together for two years I hear…"

"Yeah, but… he's _here_. You're going to be over _there_. And I don't trust Mom not to throw a monkey wrench in this," she hissed. "The whole toolbox, even."

He had to agree, unfortunately. "Well… I'll just trust my sister-in-law-to-be to keep an eagle eye on my fiancée for me. Plus, she'll be in classes starting September. If she's not home…"

"Good point." Tish cocked her head. "Gene has an extra bedroom. And his house is halfway to campus… Hmm." She wandered off toward the patio, tapping her forefinger against her lips. Donald grinned; Tish would take care of everything, he was sure. Well—at least he hoped.

He jumped as he felt an arm slip around his waist. "Hello, my beautiful fiancée," he said, turning. His smile faded. "What's wrong?"

She stared at his chest. "Let's—uh, let's go into the library. I need to tell you something." She looked like she was on the verge of tears, refusing to meet his gaze.

He felt cold with shock. He couldn't imagine what had her so distraught—but from her reaction, it had to be something big, something important. Something vital. "Ealasaid—"

She shook her head. "_No_. Please—please, let's just—" She started through the doorway of the entertainment room.

He silently followed her past the conversation pit where he'd held her and loved her so sweetly only hours before, instinctively closing the door as they entered the library. "Darling…?"

She wandered the room, hand trailing over the piano. "It's funny, when I come in here, now I think I'll see you sitting there, playing Scrabble…" Her voice caught. "One… stupid… game… and you just fit in so perfectly." He watched her slowly move around the room, touching her guitar, the music stand, her brother's drum… She stopped in front of a tall case stacked with record albums. After searching a moment, she pulled one out and held it to her, arms crossed. She was silent for a long time; he waited patiently, letting her gather her thoughts, her courage. "I lied." Her voice was flat.

"What?" He didn't understand. Lied? About—what?

"I lied." She spun around to face him and walked over quickly, almost shoving the record album into his hands. _Songs __of __Freedom_ was emblazoned across the top of the front, written in the popular 'pop art' style. _Recorded __live __at __Freedom __Concert _was written on the bottom. She sighed at his uncomprehending look. "I lied," she repeated, anguished. She opened the double album and pointed to a picture. "Donald… I lied to you!" she cried out, eyes full of tears.

He looked at the black and white photo of two blondes singing into a microphone. _Mary __Travers __(PP&M), __Annabel __Lee__ – "__Amazing __Grace__"_ was written below it in neat script print. He suddenly remembered the young man after the Moody Blues concert only three weeks before. He glanced over the photos—yes, there he was, a tiny picture with his sister, singing _Cruel __War_ according to the legend. "So… you... are… Annalee?"

She nodded.

"Why keep it a secret?"

She looked up. "You're—you're not mad?"

He was baffled. "Why would I be?"

She let out a deep breath. "Oh, Donald…" She took his hand and led him to the small sofa. "It's… it's just this huge, stupid snowball," she sighed, tucking her feet up and sitting cross-legged on the seat. "Three years ago, after Dennys came home—well, you know he has problems," she euphemized. "And one day, Tish and I were in here doing something—I don't remember what—and playing records. We were goofing around, singing along with the Kingston Trio, I think it was, and Dennys came in. After a couple of minutes, he started singing with us. It was—it was like he was transformed. The music just brought him to life. Well, Tish saw something on campus about a sort of a talent show—tryouts for some local music festival. They couldn't afford any 'names,' they were hoping to find some local—free—talent." She laughed. "She signed us up without even telling us. A week before, she springs it on us. And… that's when it all fell apart. Dennys was terrified of being on stage."

"Oh, dear. What did you do?"

"Well—we couldn't back out. She'd signed us up, they needed everyone they could get. She convinced Dennys to be our 'sound man'—they had their own person running things, but he could 'check things out' and make sure it was set up right for us. Check the lighting, things like that. And… he took to it. So long as he wasn't the focus of the attention, he was okay. And… it brought him out. He laughed, he joked, it was like having the old Dennys back. We had stumbled on a cure—well, maybe not a cure, but something to help him _cope_."

"So you and Tish…?"

She nodded. "We bluffed our way through the tryouts… and were one of the acts they chose. Tish was actually the better singer—I got lost when I tried to harmonize. I'm a little better, now," she admitted. "But I think she's still way better than I am. But—" she flipped her hands up toward her face. "I don't know why, but… I've got 'the look.' There was a music promoter there—he signed a number of people, and wanted to sign me, too. Tish and I went home, and… my mother… had… a fit. She had a real kitten fit. A cow. A herd of cows, a litter of kittens, she had the whole Humane Society of a fit."

Donald couldn't help but laugh. "Less than happy?"

"Oh, you have no idea. I mean, Tish and I both had singing lessons and music lessons from yea high." She waved her hand about a foot from the floor. "But that was so we could spread our matching organdy dresses and curtsey in front of dinner guests, launch into a pretty harmony of "_Lavender Blue_" or play Liszt on the piano. We don't do a lot of dinner parties any more," she said drily. "But Mother went right out of her tree. No way was I going to be a 'trashy, hippie singer' as she put it. But… as I said, Dennys just took to it. He was our _manager_," she said with heavy emphasis. "And he had a blast. So Daddy overruled my mom. He said if she was so set against 'her daughter' performing, then they'd create another persona. Nobody would ever know. It was Dennys who tagged me with Annabel Lee." She shrugged. "The rest is history. Limited history. I wear boots that make me tall enough for a nosebleed, wear my hair different, have these dark smoky glasses—and I sing solo. Maddie usually backs me up onstage. They don't associate Dennys the sound guy with Dennys the backup for the barmaids. I can't do much, not with school. But we do a few shows, mostly California, Washington, Oregon, Arizona. Stuff we can drive to. In the very beginning, Tish was my backup, then Maddie joined in. She and Den dated on and off before he went into the Army, got back together after he came home. When it looked like she was permanent, we let her in on the secret. And discovered the girl can sing her ass off."

"I heard you, remember? So—is that how the Bawdy Barmaids got started?"

She nodded. "They get the fun stuff, Annalee gets the serious songs. But since we couldn't have Annalee's reputation get trashed, I had to create another personality—the Bawdy Barmaids." She rolled her eyes. "I feel like _The Three Faces of Eve_."

"Oh, I was thinking more like Batgirl," he grinned. "By day—mild-mannered pastry chef, Elizabeth Anne Stewart, keeping the world content and well-fed…" he said dramatically. "By night—"

"By night a crime-fighting cabaret singer?" she laughed. "I don't think it'll fly for the fall season shows."

"Depends on the costume."

"Oh, we have the costumes…" Her smile went from teasing to wistful. "It's been so good for Dennys. He's actually started doing the sound technician stuff for real. Got an internship up at A&M Records last year, he's working there full-time, now. He has a great boss—he understands that sometimes… Dennys has problems. One of his boys came back in worse shape than Denny." Her eyes clouded. "One of them didn't come back at all."

He opened his arms and she scrambled over, curling up on his lap. They sat for a long moment, then he said slowly, "I think you and Tish are absolute geniuses for coming up with this to help Dennys."

She smiled softly and rubbed her cheek against his chest. "Thanks… But now, it's like Topsy. It 'just growed and growed' and it's taken over. Dennys is fine how he is—well, relatively speaking; he doesn't _need_ to do shows with us—but we have 'yeah, sure, if and when you do that show, we'll be there' promises we made months and months ago and they're coming due. Maddie and I have something in two weeks—actually, it sounded fun, it's kind of a Shakespeare and music festival in Northern California—but now I have to be there as Annalee, too!"

"Ah—how do you plan to do that? Double exposure photography?"

"I'll just have to make sure I have plenty of time for costume changes. And not let anyone near the room." She flinched slightly. "Oh, I… I lied about the concert tickets. They weren't from Daddy's friend. I called Malcolm—he's kind of my agent—and asked if he could do anything. He got the tickets. Quid pro quo, this is his favor in return, Annalee performing that weekend. So we're all going up in two weeks and I get to bounce between three personalities." She looked up at him. "Forgive me?"

He tipped her chin up. "Of course." In case there was any doubt he gave her a long, lingering kiss. He touched his forehead to hers. "I can't think of anything you could do that I couldn't forgive."

"I'll try not to."

/ / /

Julia was very, very drunk. Not a surprise.

She was also very, very sweet. Very, very solicitous. Very, very attentive. That _was_ a surprise; Donald was sure her fear of a lawsuit would have disappeared by dinner.

She even raised her glass in a toast when Dr. Stewart announced the future nuptials of their youngest child. (That plainly shocked the hell out of many at the table; Tish and Gene exchanged quick, 'who the hell said that?' looks and Elizabeth choked on her water. Taking her at face value and trying to keep the waters smooth, Donald merely said, 'Thank you,' and let it go.)

Tish was still shaking her head as she brought dishes into the kitchen. "I don't know how we're gonna do it," she muttered.

"Do what?" Elizabeth asked, trading clean dessert plates for dirty dinner platters.

"Have Robbie tackle Don every couple of weeks for the next two years. If the threat of a sleazeball ambulance chaser has her on her best behavior, it's worth it."

"I could fall off the roof and break some bones," Donald offered.

"Nah, don't lead off with the big damage. Work up to it."

After dessert (Julia found it a riot that Donald called it 'pudding' regardless of whether it was cake, pie—or pudding) they drifted into the entertainment room for a quick game of Grill the Boyfriend. Fortunately, it was four to one (Julia being the one, and Gene wisely abstaining); unfortunately, Julia insisted on sitting right next to Donald, Elizabeth on his other side. He was getting a contact high from the alcohol fumes (and was quietly relieved that nobody in the group smoked—the whole evening could have gone up, literally, in flames).

"So… you're going to take my baby back to Scotland?" (It came out more like 'Scollund' but he caught the drift.)

"Well, that's still up for discussion, ma'am. We might stay in Britain, we might stay here in the States."

She grasped the hand he rested on his knee and he forced himself not to flinch. "Oh, you can' take her away. You just _can__'_. Little girls, they _have_ to stay near their mommies."

Elizabeth made a tiny noise; if he had to put words to it, they'd probably be, '_please, __God, __strike __me __dead __now_.'

"Now, Julia, we didn't stay near your parents—as a matter of fact, _they_ moved to Louisiana," her husband said.

"That… was dif'rent," she said with the stiff formality only the truly bombed can achieve. "What kinna doctor you gon' be, Daniel?"

"Donald," Elizabeth murmured.

"Donal'?"

"Ah—general practice, ma'am."

"Gen-er-al prac-tice," she enunciated carefully. "So… you work, like, crazy, stupid hours over there?"

He wasn't quite sure how to answer the question, but caught sight of Tish just beyond her mother's visual range, slowly shaking her head negatively. "Ah… no?" he said hesitantly. "No," he said more firmly when Tish nodded once. She tapped her wrist and held up eight fingers. Eight o'clock? No—eight hours. "It's, ah, it's a very routine day," he lied. "Eight, nine hours, just like going to the office." Tish beamed at him; he had obviously picked the right path.

Julia seemed mollified a bit. "Huh. That's better than wha' they do here," she snorted. She looked around her, irritated. "Where's my—Andy, where's my drink?"

"You left it on the table," Dr. Stewart said smoothly. "I'll go get it." He smiled at the others. "I'm sure you kids have somewhere you'd rather be instead of watching the Saturday movie with us…?"

_You __bet._ They all but fell over one another trying to politely dash for the door. "That… was weird," Tish proclaimed when they regrouped outside. Elizabeth nodded.

"How so?" Donald asked.

"I… think she likes you," Tish said uncertainly.

"Likes me? She doesn't even remember my name."

"Ducky… half the time she doesn't remember _our_ names," Tish said shortly.

"Tish," Elizabeth said in gentle reproof.

"Well?" her sister countered. "It's true."

"Not exactly."

"Close enough." Tish leaned forward. "But she was _nice_."

"Well, Robbie did almost kill me," he joked.

She shook her head. "No… no, it's not just that. I think…" She looked baffled. "I think she really… _likes_ you." She quickly realized how that sounded and made soothing gestures. "Not that you're not likeable—I mean, I like you. You're a really nice guy."

"Thank you," her sister said acerbically.

"You know what I mean! It's just—I dunno, maybe… she's turned over a new leaf with you." She nudged Gene in the ribs. "There's hope for you, yet."

"Thanks," he said with a lack of enthusiasm. "Can we blow this pop stand?"

"Fine by me." Tish stopped in mid-step. "Wait a sec. I have got a great idea."

"Be afraid," Gene counseled Donald. "Ow!" he yelped when she smacked his arm.

"You deserve it. Let's go to Catalina!"

Elizabeth looked at her watch. "It's almost seven o'clock! Are you nuts?"

"No, no, it's summer! On Friday and Saturday they run the boats until almost three in the morning and the shops are open way late for the touristas. Aw, come on, Biz, we haven't been in ages!"

Elizabeth sighed and turned to Donald. "Well… they do have the best salt water taffy in the world," she admitted. "But it's an hour, hour and a half boat ride each way. You okay on the water?"

"I love boating," he said truthfully.

"Well… okay," she agreed. The hum of the engine, the gentle rocking of the waves… Hmm. This could be an enjoyable evening after all.

Tish threw her clenched fists upward in victory. "Yes!" She grabbed Elizabeth's hand and pulled her toward Gene's car. "Back seat!" she yelled.

"She's… the _elder_ sister?" Donald said hesitantly.

Gene shrugged. "That's what they say."

* * *

><p>11<p> 


	12. Intermezzo

**Chapter Twelve: Intermezzo**

_**Intermezzo: **__Short __movement  
><em>_or __interlude __connecting  
><em>_the __main __parts __of __the __composition_.

* * *

><p><strong>June 7, 1969 <strong>

"Ha! Roux."

"Nice way to get rid of an x." Donald clicked his tongue against his teeth. Dang, this was hard. Elizabeth was limited to cooking terms, Dr. Stewart to musical and Donald to medical—at least until the tile picks got slimmer. "Umm… torso," he said, building off her 'o.'

Dr. Stewart used the 's' for 'stave' and turned to Donald. "I have a… favor to ask of you."

"Of course. My pleasure," he said quickly.

"You haven't heard what it is."

_So __long __as __it __isn__'__t __illegal, __immoral__—__well, __maybe __immoral__…_ "Sir?"

"I need you to fill in for me next weekend."

Fill in for him? Good God, it couldn't be a medical matter. Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Daddy…?" she asked hesitantly.

"You know this—singing thing the girls do." Donald nodded. "Normally I go along, just to keep an eye on things. Not that they're not good kids—" Elizabeth rolled her eyes slightly. "But they're all a little young, unseasoned. I like to have an adult along, a cooler head as it were."

Donald managed not to snort; _and __you__'__re __looking __at __me?_

"In my infinite wisdom, I rescheduled a conference for what I thought was this weekend—and it's actually next weekend. I absolutely cannot change the dates again, especially at this point." He looked at Donald over his glasses. "I would be most appreciative if you would drive up and be my voice of reason with the kids. As I said, it's not for lack of trust—but you've got a couple of years even on Gene, and you're a bit more sensible. Reliable. It starts on Friday, but they plan to drive up Wednesday, have a day to rest and regroup—"

"Ah. Well…" he hedged.

"And… there's always the _chance_ that something will—happen—with Dennys. He's certainly improved over the years, but—well, I was very impressed with how you handled him. And he responds well to you."

That decided it. "Thank you. I'd be glad to be of assistance."

"Good." Dr. Stewart rearranged his tiles. "I'll clear the time off for you. You needn't worry about hotel, food, it's all covered." He looked at Elizabeth. "This is pretty much the end of the road, right?"

"God, I hope so," she muttered. "I mean, it was fun, and I'm glad it helped Dennys, but now that he doesn't need it—I'm ready to quit."

"Did you play yet?"

"No. Um…" She set out a flurry of tiles. "Crystals. Bingo."

"Oh, come on, how is 'crystals' a cooking term?"

She smiled at her father. "When you make fudge and it has a grainy texture it's because of the sugar _crystals_ that formed. So there."

Dr. Stewart shook his head and gave Donald a speculative look. "You're going to be playing against this for the rest of your life."

Donald grinned. "Gladly."

/ / / / / / / / / /

**June 10, 2009**

"No, no, I'm fine on the couch tonight," Donald insisted for the third (or was it sixth?) time.

"Two guest rooms upstairs," Gene shrugged.

"You're in one, Madalena is in the other," Donald returned, pushing his suitcase out of the way.

"Yeah, well…" Gene smiled and waved a hand. "You know."

"I know." _Believe __me, __I __know._

"You're welcome to the other bed."

"I am fine on the couch." Four. (Or was it seven?)

"Okey-dokey." He flipped open his notepad. "Double cheeseburger. Extra tomatoes. Hold the pickles, hold the onions." He cocked his head. "And… onion rings? I'm confused."

"I don't care for _raw_ onions."

"Oh. That makes sense. Hey, they have sautéed onions—"

Donald perked up. "Oh, in that case—"

Gene put a line through "no" and substituted "fried." "Okay—large onion rings, chocolate malt, as big as they make 'em."

"Sounds perfect." Donald gave him a thumbs-up and headed for the library as Gene went in the opposite direction.

Elizabeth sat on the floor, changing out several strings on her guitar. Donald shook his head; stringing a 6-string guitar was difficult enough—twice that was a task he didn't relish. "Hey, there." She was looking at the guitar—but he knew the smile was for him.

He looked over her shoulder. "How's it going?"

"Neat-o keen-o boss-er-ino," she sing-songed, slipping the wire through the hole on the tuning key. She used an odd z-shaped wrench to quickly wrap it around the peg. "Last one."

"Why didn't you change out all of the strings?"

"Ran out of new strings last time, these are the ones I missed. The others are new enough, should be fine. But…" She held up a handful of wires wrapped in plastic bags. "Extras of every type, just in case. Put 'em in the guitar case, would you sweetie?"

He grinned at the 'sweetie.' "Sure. He took them from her outstretched hand and opened the guitar case.

"That's where the heads bring in their good dope."

"Ohhh, should I be wary?" he teased, hand hovering over the storage box in the neck of the case.

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Your kisses are the only drug I do. Well… and chocolate."

"Chocolate actually _is_ a drug—of sorts." He pulled the bar catch from the loop and flipped open the lid.

"Really?"

"Really," he said almost automatically. It was a large storage box, larger than the norm—Elizabeth had mentioned 'building it out' when she first pulled the guitar out earlier. It was crammed full of all sorts of paraphernalia: guitar picks, a couple of tuning forks, an emery board, tiny wire cutters, a miniscule bottle of glue, a handful of pegs… and one item totally unrelated to a guitar, or even music—a flat, round plastic container tucked in the very bottom, hidden from casual view. Donald shook himself mentally. "Yes. Theobromine. It's—it's a chemical found in cocoa…"

He let that corner of his mind that could carry on a discourse without monitoring take over. He neatly arranged the bags of strings and slipped the peg lock back in place. _Should __be __a __padlock, __if __you __ask __me._

Elizabeth was grinning and shaking her head as she tuned the strings of the guitar. "What's so funny?"

"I'm not laughing!" She craned her head back and looked up at him. "I'm just… enjoying the moment. You have this incredible, eclectic store of knowledge and I just love to hear you talk."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and cocked his head slightly. "You don't find me… boring?"

She looked at him in astonishment. "Boring? Far from it! Don't tell me someone had the temerity to call you boring?"

"Well…"

She shoved the guitar aside and scrambled to her feet, "Come here, you." She stepped forward and slipped her arms around his waist. "Donald Mallard, you are one of the most, if not _the_ most, interesting people I have ever met. You are funny and intelligent and have depth to you that few people can claim. If someone finds you '_boring_,'" she said dismissively, "it's because they have a limited scope of interest and no desire to expand upon it."

He grinned down at her. "And that is why I love playing Scrabble with you."

She fluttered her eyes coquettishly. "And here I thought it was because I let you win."

"_Let_ me win! I like that—"

She giggled and reached up to give him a quick kiss. "Yeah, yeah… I sweat blood when I play against you." She waggled her eyebrows. "And I like it that way."

"So—do I get to hear you play that thing? Or do I have to wait until the weekend?"

"Let me get it tuned and play it out for a while to get the strings happy with one another. After Gene gets back with dinner?"

"It's a date." He winked.

"You get onion rings?"

"Of course."

"I got fries. Half of yours, half of mine?"

He kissed her forehead. "Marriage is all about sharing."

"God, I love a modern man."

Another kiss to her forehead. "Need me?"

"More than you'll ever know," she sighed. "But if you'll put the drum and Maddie's mandolin in her van, you can be released from duty."

"Does the guitar go in the van?"

"No!" she said sharply. She laughed. "Sorry—didn't mean to snap your head off. I'm just… a little protective of her."

"Her?"

"Well… she seems like a she," she said defensively.

"Have you given her a name?" he teased.

"Not yet." She stuck her tongue out at him.

"You shouldn't do that," he whispered mock-threateningly.

"Why?"

"Because…" He leaned over and kissed her, long and thorough. (If Dennys walked in, he was a dead man.)

She was swaying slightly when he pulled away. "Oh," she managed faintly. "_That__'__s_ why."

He gave her a naughty wink. "Yep." He scooped up Dennys' bodhran and Maddie's mandolin and strolled from the room.

"Oh, thanks!" Maddie said, leaning out the side door of the van. She took the two cases and carefully tucked them on the back seat.

Donald looked around curiously. This was the first time he'd seen the inside of her van. "Wow."

"Yeah, a rolling sewing room."

"I'm… impressed." The walls were lined with cabinets; a built-in workstation had a large, complex sewing machine bolted into it. It was a tight fit, but compact and neat. Plainly her jokes about her lack of housekeeping abilities didn't include her workspace.

"Den wired it so that I can plug into a generator. That way if I'm on a shoot out in BFE, I can still run my machines."

"BFE?"

She chuckled, her smile growing to a broad grin. "I… think I'll let Lizzie explain that one."

He cocked his head. "Oh?"

"Yeah." She laughed again, her sexy-without-trying, throaty chortle. "Could generate some interesting… discussions."

Shaking his head, he returned to the house. It was too close to dinner to change into his trunks and join Tish and Dennys in the pool; instead he grabbed his copy of _An __Aging __Nation: __Care __of __the __Elderly_ and pushed himself into the curve of the conversation pit couch. He flipped to his bookmark and opened the book.

From behind the closed door he could hear faint strains of Elizabeth playing the guitar—quick chords moving up and down the strings, hard strumming, then quick plucking (how the heck she managed twelve strings still impressed him).

He laid the book against his chest.

_Wow_.

Okay… he was going up—ostensibly—as Dr. Stewart's proxy. Gently ride herd, keep an eye on Dennys if needed, prevent complete chaos from taking over.

Going up… to Napa. Wine country of California. Pleasant, romantic area of the state. With four new, but affectionately-regarded, friends.

And his fiancée.

He was only human. (He was only male.) He had hopes of a… _pleasant_ weekend. It had been a week and a half since he'd asked Elizabeth to marry him, a week and a half since she had accepted, a week and a half since they came so damn close to consummating their relationship… Yes, he had hopes of a 'pleasant weekend,' a chance to be alone with Elizabeth, a chance to cuddle and kiss and pet… maybe, just maybe, a chance to make love with her. But as he spent the past few days mulling over the trip, he had been a little hesitant—did she want to take their relationship further, when he'd only be in the States a little over two weeks more? Or had she been 'caught up in the moment' the other day, carried away by powerful feelings and emotions?

He thought of what he'd found hidden in the storage box of her guitar case and let out a deep breath.

_Birth control pills._

Well… that answered one question. If they decided to take the next step… she was ready.

That only left the second question unanswered.

Was _he_?

* * *

><p>12<p> 


	13. Interval Affannato

**Chapter Thirteen: Interval Affannato**

_**Interval:** The distance  
>in pitch between two notes.<br>__**Affannato:** Anguished._

* * *

><p><strong>September 19, 2009<strong>

Ducky smiled and rolled his head slowly, luxuriating in the hot water pounding on his neck and shoulders. There was a definite enjoyment to earning what he would have called a hedonistic pleasure years ago, and weeding the gardens from dawn until lunch qualified as the work done to earn such a delight. Hot water; bountiful, rich suds with an unusual spicy scent (courtesy a gift basket of bath goodies sent to his mother containing items that made her sneeze nonstop) that was oddly both stimulating and soothing; a lazy afternoon to put his feet up and indulge in an advance copy of Tempe Brennan's newest book—

He cocked his head; maybe not. Yes, there it was again—the trill of _Scotland __the __Brave_, which meant someone was trying to reach him on the cell. With a near growl of irritation, he rinsed off, shoved his arms into a terrycloth robe and stalked into his bedroom, tying the sash as he went.

_1 __new __voicemail._ He looked at the incoming call screen; it was a number he vaguely recognized, but couldn't place, and there was no name in the cell's memory for the number. At least it wasn't anyone from NCIS; with any luck, it wasn't a telemarketer.

"Ducky?" The voice on the message was so soft he could barely hear it. He upped the volume to the maximum level. "This is Rowena. I hate to ask—I know it's your day off, but—" she let out a tiny sigh. "No, it's okay. Never mind. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have disturbed you."

She had bothered to call him at home, away from the office—and then changed her mind at the last moment. Odd. He drew in a breath; it had been a week since he had recommended her for an internship—while Abby had been behind his idea 100%, hers was not the only approval needed. She sounded upset—maybe even disappointed. Damn.

He punched the number to automatically return her call and waited. After only two rings, there was a soft, "Hello?"

"Rowena?"

"Yes?"

"It's Ducky, my dear. I'm sorry I missed your call—"

"No, no," she said, her voice still barely a whisper. "I shouldn't have called you, I'm sorry—"

"Nonsense," he said kindly. "Please. Tell me. What is the problem? How can I help?"

There was a sudden catch in her voice. "Oh, Ducky. I'm so scared."

He sat up sharply. "Scared of what?" His mind went to horrible paths—just because Bronwyn had cleaned up her act didn't mean her thuggish friends had. Or Walter—yes, it was years ago, yes, he was long dead—but there could be a family member waiting for misguided revenge—

"No, no, not scared like that." Her voice was anguished. "I'm scared about Nana. Ducky—she sleeps. Almost all the time."

"Well," he said hesitantly, "she did sustain quite a painful injury, a shock to her system—and then insisted upon going home long before she should have. Sleep is one of the things necessary for the body to repair itself."

"And—and she's not eating. Not much."

Okay, _that_ wasn't good. "Could you be more precise?" he asked, trying for a soothing tone.

"Well… For _certain_… I know yesterday I made her scrambled eggs and toast and a little ham steak for breakfast before I went to school. I left a small bowl with tuna casserole and green beans in the fridge, something she could microwave. And I dished up applesauce and custard so she wouldn't have to open containers with one hand, just take off the plastic and eat." There was a sniffle over the phone, almost a sob. "Last night, I found her breakfast in the trash. I think she gave the ham to the cat. She never touched her lunch, not even the applesauce. I think she had two bites of macaroni last night, said she was too tired to eat more and went to bed." Another almost-whimper. "Oh, Ducky… she has a tea maker in her room, she's barely even using that. I think she had one cup of tea today, maybe, she refused breakfast, said she was too tired—"

"Rowena," he said carefully, "have you called her physician?"

"This morning," she whispered. "I wasn't sure, not until last night—Mom was suspicious, too, but, it's like we couldn't catch her at it—"

"Like an anorexic teenager," he murmured.

She let out a deep breath. "God. Yes."

"What did Dr. Ackerman say?"

"He's not there," she said intensely. "The service said his cover would call back—oh, Ducky, it's been ages since I called—I have to go to work, it's my last day, I can't miss—could you… please…?"

He hesitated. While Elizabeth hadn't been hateful toward him in the hospital, she hadn't been what Abby would call warm and fuzzy, either. "Rowena, I don't know that I'd be helpful. I might actually exacerbate the situation. Your grandmother—it's been a long time," he temporized. "I don't think she wants me there. I'm not close to her any more—"

"Ducky—I think that might _help_," she said earnestly, her voice still low. It was obvious Elizabeth was asleep and she was trying not to awaken her—or awake, and she was hiding the conversation. "Mom and I, we're too close. Nana won't listen to us. Maybe… if you're more of a doctor, less of an ex-fiancé—"

Ex-fiancé. Ouch.

"Please?"

For all her maturity, she was still just a 16-year-old child—a child who was scared for her beloved grandmother. "Of course, my dear."

He could barely hear her say, "Thank you."

"Where do you live?"

"McLean. Evermay Drive, off Potomac School Road. End of the cul-de-sac."

"Georgetown Pike?"

"Turns into Potomac."

"I'll be there as quickly as I can. When do you need to be at work?"

"Four. I leave at quarter past three—"

"Not to worry. I shouldn't be more than half an hour." After eliciting a promise that she would call if anything made her the slightest bit worried, he rang off and shut the phone. As he pulled clothing from the closet, he gave the room a wry smile: just what _does_ one wear when visiting an ex-fiancé and trying to convince her not to starve herself to death?

/ / /

"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Rowena's hug wasn't as dangerous as Abby's generally were, but it was no less intense as she whispered into his ear. She was stiff as a board from strain. "It's all right, my dear." He reached up to pat her back. "The cavalry is here, for what it's worth."

She pulled back and let out a long sigh. "I already feel better, just having you here." She glanced up toward the stairs. "I just checked on her a few minutes ago. She's still asleep. Can I get you something? Water? Tea? Coffee?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned toward the kitchen. "I need a drink."

He followed her quickly, in shock. Surely she couldn't mean what he thought by 'I need a drink." (He knew what _he_ meant by that phrase.) "Rowena, you—" He laughed as she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bright red soda can.

"What?" she asked, popping the top to a Caf-Pow. "Oh, would you like one? I didn't think—"

"No, no thank you." Phew. Disaster averted. "I was just thinking—you and Abby will get along famously."

"Oh!" She smacked her fist against her forehead. "I meant to call you last night, but by the time—it was too late—I'm sorry, I got my call yesterday, I was approved to be Abby's intern!" She literally jumped up and down.

"That's wonderful!" he beamed at her. God knows they could use some good news.

"I told my supervisor, I said I could give two weeks notice, but Mr. Camarin in HR at NCIS said if I could start earlier than that it would be helpful, so Ms. Parton, she's at George, if I come in today she'll release me without two weeks without penalty, and I can't wait I wish it were Monday already—"

He reached over and silently took the can from her grasp.

"What's wrong?"

He peered at the label. "Oh, nothing… just wondering what in the name of God they put in this stuff." He returned the can to her hand. "There are times Abigail sounds just like a windup toy with a stuck mainspring." He held up a cautionary finger. "I trust you will not repeat that. And do _not_ call her Abigail."

She shook her head slowly. "Never." She took a calming breath. "Okay. You don't like Caf-Pow—tea?" She walked over to an interesting electric glass pot. "This is really cool, it's like an old coffee percolator—and the tea stays good for hours. They don't make 'em any more, Nana tried to get 'em for the store. Mom made this before she left. It's Russian Caravan. Or—I think we have some beer from when Drew was here at the end of summer," she said hesitantly. "Or I could make a screwdriver—that's the only drink I know how to make…"

"Your grandmother could be… intractable… when she put her mind to it. I think I'd best keep my wits about me. Water would be fine."

She looked at him shrewdly. "Intractable. A pretty way of saying 'pig-headed.'"

"Rowena!" he said in tones of mild shock—but laughed nonetheless. He accepted the tall glass of ice water she held out.

"Yeah, well—it makes me sure you're the man for this job." She stared up at the ceiling, as though listening. "Let me give you the cook's tour." She waved a hand. "Kitchen. Duh."

"Larger than most."

"It's used for product development—she can write it off. A little." She led him to the back door. "Back yard. Another duh." He followed her out the kitchen. "Dining room, which we use about seven times a year. Birthdays, Thanksgiving, yadda, yadda, yadda. Most of the time we are a typical American family: trays in front of the boob tube. Mom is a real TV junkie."

"And you?"

"Well… I'm kinda hooked on some of the old reruns. _Buffy_, _Angel_, _Forever_ _Knight_—" He had no idea what she was talking about. "It's easier than getting hooked on a new show and missing a couple of episodes. With the old shows, in a month or two they're repeating the ones you missed again. Oh—I love, love, love all the _CSIs_. I know they're ridiculously inaccurate, but I still love them."

"Abby will be grateful to hear you say that. It drives her crazy trying to explain that you cannot get a DNA result in fifteen minutes."

Rowena grinned. "Living room," she said, her voice dropping back to a whisper. The staircase in the back corner obviously led to the bedrooms. "Library. Library, study, office, whatever."

And an impressive library it was, too. Messy and disorganized, but impressive. A good-sized family picture hung behind the desk. "I saw a number of pictures of you children at the store, your grandmother—oh," he said involuntarily, immediately embarrassed for his shocked response. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," she said with a sigh. "Ronnie looks a little different than what you saw at the store, hunh?"

"Well—yes." It was a typical studio shot, Elizabeth in an armchair, Tori behind her, the three children grouped about. He had a feeling it had taken several shots to get Tori to relax her smile. (Possibly several non-photographic shots as well.) To her left stood her youngest, already quite a bit taller than her mother and very pretty, with auburn waves flowing over her shoulders and halfway down her back, dressed in a dark bronze taffeta and lace party dress. Directly to her right, her only son, a few inches above his mother—barely. Still wearing glasses but no longer in braces, his easy grin warred with his suit and tie. And… then there was Bronwyn.

No longer a blonde. Parts of her hair—chopped and hacked off haphazardly—were jet black, other parts every color of the rainbow... and some the rainbow had missed. She was dressed sedately, in a lacy white blouse and plum velvet skirt, but he could see four or five face piercings and the top of some sort of tattoo peeking above the high collar of her blouse. Her smile was pure sarcasm.

"Mom brought along the skirt and blouse, she was pretty sure Ronnie wouldn't show up in the right clothes. She was right." That made sense. "Mom was ready to kill her. She didn't know about the tattoo—Ronnie had been hiding it for a couple of weeks."

"Don't you have to be 18 to get a tattoo?"

"You've never heard of a fake ID? You have to be 18 to get those piercings, too. She got all of those done the night before the picture, came walking in looking like a pincushion. I thought Mom was going to drop dead on the spot. She really lit into her, but Nana told them to knock it off. Drew was home from college for Christmas; she wanted a picture of all of us. 'She's my granddaughter—I don't care what she looks like, I just want a picture of all of us. And by God, I'm going to get one!'"

He laughed softly. "Yes… that sounds like Elizabeth. Tish, too."

"It was just a few weeks later that Ronnie… and Nana…" She stared at the carpet. "It was right after the new year." She laughed ruefully. "At least we had a happy Christmas." He squeezed her shoulder and she looked up. "But she's doing better, really she is!" She grabbed a picture frame from the desk and thrust it toward him almost desperately.

It was amazing what a couple of years could do. Bronwyn was still dying her hair, but it was a uniform black—she looked like Abby's younger sister. The piercings were gone, with the exception of one tiny gold ring at the tip of one eyebrow. The smile was hesitant, but sincere. On the other side—Ducky smiled. There was no mistaking Dennys and Madalena, not even after forty years. Maddie still had the open grin that invited the world into her arms and looked more the quintessential Earth Mother than ever before. Dennys still had hair that brushed his shoulders, though it was now mostly stone gray. Between them stood Bronwyn, proud in her robes of green and gold, showing off the diploma clutched in her hands and standing behind the small marquee with the legend _Mira __Costa __High __School__ – __Class __of __2009_ on it. "I'm so glad for her." He looked up at Rowena. "For all of you."

"She even managed to graduate a year early. She really worked like crazy. They're coming out for Thanksgiving. Everyone. Even Grandfather and Sassy—she won't let us call her grandma," she said with a small laugh. "They have to drive or take the train—Grandfather has macular degeneration, he's not allowed to fly."

"Cabin pressure," he said almost automatically. "How bad—"

"Bad," she said tersely. "He can read the computer with his glasses—if the print is about this big." She held her fingers a good three inches apart. "He's like, what—ninety? Something like that. He had to stop driving before any of us were born. Before he and Grandmother Julia came out for the last time, I think. Yeah, that's right—Uncle Den and Auntie Mad drove everyone, I remember Mom telling me."

"Oh, dear," he sighed. The idea of losing his sight, his livelihood… and not too many years after he had met the man, too. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks for his own vision.

"He's pretty chipper about it, really. Sassy still drives—they go to Vegas every couple of months," she laughed.

"You're joking."

"Nope. He's a fiend on the slots." She gave him a grin. "How do you think I got a car for my birthday? It sure wasn't 'if-you-save-half-I'll-pay-half' Mom, that's for sure."

"Ah." He followed her back into the living room, noting the photographs and memorabilia as he went. A picture of Andrew and several other teens standing behind some sort of small vehicle; a trophy next to the photo was engraved _Robot __Wars __2004 __Team __Terminator __2__nd __Place_. Another photo of Bronwyn, perhaps ten or eleven, taken during a school play—she was wearing what looked like school robes and was pointing off toward the sky. "Bronwyn plans to be an actress?"

"That? No, not really. She's actually working as a backup singer, now. Her class did a kind of edited version of Harry Potter for their part of the final assembly. She got to play Hermione Granger." She gave him a disgusted look. "Can you beat it? Some of the parents complained that the teacher was trying to turn the kids into devil worshippers. And their kids weren't even in Ronnie's class!"

He knew enough about the fantasy series to understand her feelings. "Typical." He smiled at a picture of Rowena on a tri-step podium. She was dressed in a short, spangled outfit, had white-booted ice skates on her feet and clutched a trophy in one arm. "You skate! Your grandmother—Elizabeth's sister—was a dynamo on ice."

Rowena nodded. "Grandpa found some old movies years ago, we had them put onto DVDs." She sighed. "I wish I had known her."

He smiled in fond remembrance. He had started out with a poor impression of Tish, but had warmed to her over the weeks. He had even tried tracking Elizabeth down through her sister but had been unable to locate a Gene Addams in all of Southern California. "You would have liked her." He looked at another shot of Rowena, this time in all black with glittering beadwork. This pose showed her in mid-leap, one leg tucked under in a pose that made him think of ballet. Her arms were flung out gracefully, and she had an almost sassy look on her face. "You look like you were having a great time."

"I was." She smiled wistfully. "Drew took that shot, timed it perfectly. It was right on the bridge."

"Bridge?"

"Yeah, this wasn't in competition. It was part of the free skate afterward, where you can use music with vocals and kind of screw around on the ice. You know, back flips are okay, you can play around… so I skated to _Tubthumping_."

He looked at her blankly. "I'm sorry, is that a group?"

"No… it's a song. You know—" She started to sing softly. "_I __get __knocked __down__—__but __I __get __up __again__—__you__'__re __never __gonna __keep __me __down_—"

"Oh, I've heard that song. It's marvelous. Very inspirational."

She actually goggled at him. "_I __beg __your __pardon?_"

"You know—_I __get __knocked __down, __but __I __get __up __again_… Young man doesn't let life beat him down, he keeps going no matter what…"

She looked absolutely strangled. "Um, did you listen to _all_ of the lyrics?"

"Well—I don't know that I was able to _understand_ all of the lyrics—you don't necessarily understand _all_ English accents, even growing up there…"

She crossed over to a bookcase and returned with a CD in hand. She removed the folded paper inset and handed it to him, pointing out the song. As he read the lyrics, she said, "Ducky… he's _drunk_."

"_He __takes __a __whisky __drink__… __He __drinks __a __vodka __drink__… __He __drinks __a __lager __drink__… __He __drinks __a __cider __drink__… __He __sings __the __songs_…" He shut the paper. "Oh."

"Getting 'knocked down' means getting flat-on-your-ass drunk." She grinned apologetically. "I just chose it because I thought it had a great beat."

He remembered the song; it was rather catchy. "Can't argue that." He handed her back the insert. "I'd love to see you skate some time."

She shrugged as she turned away. "That was my last competition."

He frowned; the date on the photo read 2005.

"Debi Thomas may have pulled off pre-med and a skating career, but I knew I couldn't double up like that. I had to choose. I chose… getting an education." He could hear the tears in her voice. "I never wanted to go to the Olympics, I just… wanted to be good. So… it's okay."

_Just __like __Tish._ He reached out and touched her shoulder. "I'm sure it will be," he said gently.

A quiet thump made them both look up. "Nana's awake." She glanced at the clock. "Good. I was worried I'd have to take off and leave you here to face her wrath alone." She headed to the stairs, gesturing for him to follow.

"Rowena, maybe I should wait—"

"No, I need you there to back me up," she said, a trifle grimly. "Please?"

Oh, it was useless. He'd never stand up to her pleading eyes any more than he could stand up to Abby—or probably Tori, for that matter. He was a patsy for a pretty girl in distress. He sighed. "All right." He followed her reluctantly. "I hope you know what you're doing," he muttered.

She led him to the end of the hallway—_just __like __her __bedroom __back __in __California_, he couldn't help but remember. She rapped on the ajar door; "Nana?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I have someone to visit you—may we come in?" Just slightly duplicitous.

"Ah—oh—" Elizabeth sounded startled. "Well, yes. I'm decent," she added with a laugh. Her laugh faded as they entered the room. "Donald." She didn't sound upset—just uncertain.

"Hello, Elizabeth." He put on his best smile and bedside manner. "How are you feeling? Arm mending?" She nodded slightly. "Sleeping well?" he continued. Another small nod. "How is your appetite?"

"Fine," she said amiably. Rowena snorted, earning her a raised eyebrow from her grandmother. "I'm not terribly hungry," she amended, "but _I__'__m __fine_. You don't need to be concerned, this—this is silly—"

"Hmm," he said in a pleasant tone. Two could play that game. "Well, a drop in appetite is often normal after surgery." Rowena looked up at him; whose side was he on? "What did you have for breakfast?"

Rowena turned her gimlet eye on her grandmother. "Well," she hedged. "I was rather tired, I just slept through breakfast."

"Mmh. And lunch?" Silence. "What about dinner last night?"

"Oh, we had macaroni and cheese, Victoria makes the most wonderful macaroni and cheese; you should have some—"

"So if it's so wonderful, why'd you only have two bites?" her granddaughter said sharply. Another raised brow, but Rowena wasn't backing down. She crossed her arms defiantly.

"Elizabeth, you do need to eat more than that," he said gently.

"Donald, I—"

In two quick steps he was by her side. Without warning, he reached over and pinched the skin on the back of her uninjured hand. The skin stayed pinched up for several seconds, then slowly settled back flat. "You're dehydrated," he said almost conversationally. "You aren't taking in enough calories to sustain your body, let alone help it heal."

"Donald—"

He leaned close to whisper in her ear. "Your daughter and your granddaughter are scared shitless." She gasped at the word and looked up at him, aghast. He would have _never_ used such a phrase to her forty years ago. "They are terrified that you are going to die. Is that what you want, Elizabeth? Did seeing me so horrify you that you want to die?"

She stared at him, mouth agape. Tears slowly gathered in her eyes. "No. No, I—" She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "_No_."

"Well… that is precisely what you are in danger of achieving. Now." He raised the level of his voice a bit. "I am going to give you a choice. Choice number one: I can drag you down to the hospital and have you forcibly admitted for a 72 hour hold claiming that you are a danger to yourself."

She looked shocked, a look that quickly turned to fury. "You wouldn't—"

"_Watch __me!_" His voice was harsh. He stood back up next to Rowena. "If you go to the hospital, they will at least be able to put you on an IV and force fluids into you. It would be a simple matter to have you declared incompetent and Victoria given conservatorship." Rowena looked at him, startled. "I have a number of valuable contacts in D.C. Don't make me use them." He glared at Elizabeth.

Her eyes were almost black with rage. "Donald Mallard, if you think—"

"Or—" He held up a hand. "Or," he repeated, more kindly, "you can go downstairs… have some soup… juice… maybe a few crackers…" He smiled. "I hear the applesauce is lovely this time of year."

Her sails deflated somewhat. "But… I'm not hungry. Truly, I'm not." She looked up at him beseechingly.

"I understand." He reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and was relieved when she didn't pull away. "You've hardly eaten all week, it sounds like. After a while, your body shuts down, trying to adjust to the lowered caloric intake. Which is part of why you need to sleep so much." That plus a good dose of depression, he was willing to wager. "Vicious circle. Let's break it, you and I." He let his fingers trail down her jaw line, tipping her chin up slightly. "You have a lot of people who love you, Elizabeth," he said gently. "Let us help you." _Yes__—__**us **__includes __**me**__._

After a moment, she managed a ghost of a smile.

"What kind of soup sounds good?" Her look was plain: nothing. "Chicken noodle?" Everyone had chicken noodle on the shelf. Well, short of the vegetarians he knew.

"Chicken noodle. We can do chicken noodle," Ro almost babbled. "Five minutes, tops." She almost flew from the room. He smiled at the noise she made pounding down the hallway and the staircase.

He kept his fingertip to her chin, continuing to stare into her eyes. God, she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. She looked more substantial than she had in the past, more grounded, less like a gossamer fairy—but it was just a new charm to admire. Even her years with the abusive bastard she'd married hadn't crushed the spirit in those eyes; she'd managed to escape, taking her sister's child with her and going forward in life. _After __all __this __time, __all __these __years, __I __still __love __you. __I __don__'__t __think __I __ever __stopped __loving __you. __And __I__'__ve __missed __you, __God, __have __I __missed __you__…_

So many things he wanted to say, and none of them the right words. He finally gave up, leaned over and touched his lips to hers for the softest of kisses.

Elizabeth looked up at him for a long moment, the tears of anger now changed to something else. Finally she whispered, "I've missed you, too."

/ / /

Probably figuring Elizabeth might do better with someone to keep her company, Rowena had set two places for a late lunch. She had thrown together an amazing spread in only a few minutes: chicken soup; wafer thin squares of bread the size of a credit card, spread with soft butter; dishes of chilled applesauce, delicately minced fruit and custard (fortunately, not all mixed together); reheated macaroni and cheese from the night before; and cups and glasses of every clear or light drink imaginable: ginger ale, lemon-lime soda, apple juice and tea, just for a start.

Elizabeth looked at him with something akin to horror. "I don't have to eat all of this, do I?" she murmured.

He shook his head. "Just give it the old college try."

"Oh, God," she groaned softly. But when Rowena came out of the kitchen, bearing a last bowl of steamed rice pilaf and a plate of cheese and crackers—an interesting combination—she managed a bright smile. "Thank you, sweetheart. I appreciate this." She shot Ducky a look. "I'm sorry you had to go to such lengths, I truly didn't mean to frighten you."

"Well—you did," Rowena said, but not unkindly. "But I forgive you." She dropped a kiss on her grandmother's cheek, being careful to avoid her injured arm. "Gotta scoot or I'll be late." She turned and gave Ducky an enthusiastic hug. "See you Monday, Ducky," she grinned.

"Rowena! Don't call him that—" Elizabeth started in chocked accents.

"She does so by invitation," Ducky countered.

"But—you hate being called Ducky," she protested.

"Past tense. I don't mind it. I actually quite like it." He smiled at her. "But I promise not to call you Bizzy."

She laughed slightly. "Funny thing… I learned to not mind that over the years."

"See?" He held her chair for her then took the seat to her right. "So. Rowena says this room is pretty much used on state occasions, that you normally eat by television light."

She smiled faintly as she idly swirled her soup. "Donald Mallard in my house… I'd call that a state occasion." Her eyes flicked up uncertainly, then dropped back down. She ate a spoonful of the soup.

_Hey, __if __that__'__s __what __it __takes__…_ He was willing to be embarrassed through the whole meal if she'd just _eat_. "I still can't believe that we both ended up in the same town… and we've never crossed paths."

She raised an eyebrow. "When Julia Stewart lays down a curse, it sticks."

Now, there was a topic set to ruin an appetite or two. "I was admiring the pictures in the living room," he said smoothly. "You're a very proud grandmother. And justifiably so," he added quickly.

She smiled. "I think so." Another bite of soup, followed by a nibble of buttered bread. "Dennys—Dennys and Mad are coming out for Thanksgiving. And Ronnie—" she smiled. "It'll be the first time she's been home since…" She looked up, then back down at her plate. Sip; nibble. "Rowena told me… that you know what happened." She locked eyes with him, an anguished gaze. "You have to understand, she didn't mean to—"

"I understand. I do." He reached over and patted her arm. "I'm glad she's turned her life around. I'm just sorry that it took hurting you for her to do it."

"I'm not," she said firmly. "I'd go through it a hundred times to see her off drugs and flying straight."

He was sure she was telling the truth. "I'm thankful it didn't come to that."

"Well… so am I." She concentrated on lining up a piece of cheese on a cracker as though her life depended on it being centered perfectly. "So, um… would you like to join us?"

"Pardon?"

She continued to arrange the cheese. "Thanksgiving. Would you like to join us… for Thanksgiving dinner?" Her eyes flicked up for a split second.

It was tempting. A thousand times over. "Shouldn't it just be… family? Especially for Bronwyn—"

She smiled faintly. "Rowena has pretty much adopted you. So has Tori, for that matter. And… I'd like for you to be here." There was a hopeful note—very faint, but it was there.

He nodded slowly. "Thank you. I'd love to come. It will be nice to see Dennys and Madalena again after all these years."

She smiled down at her food. "Good."

"Will you be cooking dinner?"

"Of course!" She looked almost offended.

He grinned. "Can't wait." He pointed to her lunch. "In that case, you'd better start working on getting your strength back, my dear. You only have a bit over two months."

"Holy cow. Is it really that late?" She determinedly ate several bites of soup.

"Mm-hmm. Halloween displays up all over town."

"Where does the time fly," she murmured. "Oh—I have some of the greatest pictures of the kids from Halloween—after we finish eating," she amended at his stern look.

"_After_ we finish eating," he agreed.

/ / /

It was slow going, but by the time they adjourned to the living room, she had polished off a bowl of soup and had had what he considered reasonable tastes of all the other foods. He had gently nagged her into drinking two glasses of juice and once she was settled on the sofa he presented her with a tall glass of ginger ale on ice.

"I'm going to float upstairs," she protested.

"Elizabeth, you're dehydrated," he reminded her. "Drink up."

Sighing, she took a sip. "Pictures," she reminded him. She pointed to a shelf. "It's all color-coordinated," she laughed. "Orange is Halloween. Red is Christmas. Lavender is Easter."

"What about birthdays?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Black."

Chuckling, he brought over a stack of albums. She flipped open the Halloween volume. "Daddy is a baseball fan."

"I guessed." Drew, not even a year old, was dressed in baseball uniform style sleeper jammies and was halfheartedly holding a plastic baseball bat.

"You'll see a repeat of that theme over the years."

He did—along with a pirate, mad scientist, vampire and a robot. "That must have taken him all year," he said, admiring the boxy robot with flashing lights.

"Not quite, but it felt like it. Now this one…" She turned the page. "First place at the school Halloween parade."

"I can see why!"

Drew had fashioned himself into a computer—his head was an old-style monitor, his neck the support base; his body was a large reel-to-reel tape drive and banks of blinking lights. On either side of his body was attached a stereo speaker; all sorts of cables and wires plugged in on all four sides. "And it worked," Elizabeth said smugly.

"You're kidding."

"Well, not like a computer—but it performed. He had computer bleeps and whirrs and phrases taped on the reel to reel—he found that at a yard sale for five bucks—and the sound effects played through the speakers. He had the lights set up to respond to certain cues—if it went 'bleep' it flashed these lights, if it went 'blorp' it flashed those lights. And every ten minutes or so, it would play _The_ _Murderous __Little __Toy_."

"The what?" he laughed.

"Come on, you remem—no, that's right, it was later. Okay, it's to the tune of _The __Marvelous __Little __Toy_, let me see…" She hummed a little and mumbled under her breath, then sang, "_When __I __was __just __a __wee __little __lad __my __father __brought __to __me__… __a __toy __he__'__d __made __down __at __the __lab, __it __filled __me __full __of __glee__… __A __wonder __to __behold __it __was, __with __many __buttons __bright__… __from __the __moment __that __he __turned __it __on, __it __filled __us __all __with __fright!_"

He burst out laughing. "Oh, that must have been wonderful!"

"It was. I have it on videotape, somewhere…" She flipped pages. "The girls as Rainbow Brite, both of them… the obligatory Renaissance Faire costumes…"

Next, the Christmas book—years of trees, tissue paper, gifts; holiday school pageants, snowmen; boyfriend (or girlfriend) at one holiday, missing the next; one young woman was seen at Christmas and Thanksgiving for the last few pictures. At least someone had staying power.

He pulled over the next volume, the dreaded birthday tome. Considering how it had started, it was turning into a wonderful afternoon; they'd fallen almost if not quite back into the easy banter he'd loved so much. If the romance wasn't there any more… oh, well. He glanced at her profile; who knows, maybe it could be again.

"Take a pic-ture," she sing-songed.

"Mmh?"

"Take a picture," she teased. "It'll last longer." In the past she had said that to him any number of times when catching him watching her.

He leaned over and tipped her chin up. "No pictures needed," he said. He tapped his forehead. "All up here, every moment."

She let out a slow breath, smiling faintly. "Me, too."

He opened the book to a picture of Drew destroying a piece of birthday cake. "That seems to be universal."

"Yep. You'll see at least one for each of the girls. And one or two more of Drew—he was slow to catch on to the idea that food did not need to be killed first."

"The mighty hunter," he intoned.

"And what is it about little boys and vegetables? Until he got to high school, if it was green, it was out. The only vegetable he'd eat was raw carrots and an occasional cob of corn."

"No French fries?"

She gave him a mildly disgusted look. "And you call yourself a doctor."

"Well, they are potatoes, my dear," he teased.

"Yeah—and deep fried."

He turned a page and saw Elizabeth, Rowena on her lap, sitting next to a cake covered in 4s. Candles shaped like the number 4, a Roman numeral IV, clusters of 4 thin candles, and the number 4 written and spelled out all over a bright purple and pink cake. "Ah—I'm guessing the young lady on your lap turned four?"

"Bravo, Sherlock. Bronwyn was behind that cake. Ro and I are exactly four days apart in April, so we split the difference in the middle every year, on the 6th. That was the year she turned four and Nana turned forty-four. Bronwyn… helped her mother make the cake. It was actually quite edible, if you closed your eyes to the colors," she laughed. "Took forever to blow out all those silly candles, I was sure we'd burn the house down, first."

"But a good time was had by all?"

"Oh, absolutely." They flipped through the pages; as with the other volumes, there were a number of loose photos jammed in the back of the book. "I keep swearing I'll get these things organized," she said tiredly.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Would you like to rest before dinner?"

"Dear God, who can think of food?"

"Well, you will again—soon. I'm not letting you weasel out of Thanksgiving dinner."

"Weasel! I like that," she huffed.

"Tired?" he prompted.

"Actually—yes, a little."

"Rowena said you've been sleeping quite a bit. Now, too much sleep—"

"Is as bad as too little," she finished. "Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. To be honest, even though I'm resting, I'm not really sleeping, not more than normal... if that."

"Are you in pain?" She shrugged slightly. "Elizabeth—are you in pain?" he repeated more firmly.

"It's not that bad."

"You know, they make painkillers for a good reason."

"I don't like having hard drugs in the house," she said shortly.

Mmmh. Touchy subject, given what they'd gone through with Bronwyn. "Okay… how about something tried and true? Ibuprofin? It might take the edge off."

She considered. "I guess so…"

"Where—"

"Upstairs, my bathroom. I'll go get it."

"Nonsense, you sit here—"

"Donald… I need to go up there anyway." She gave him an amused look. "There are some things I'll have to take care of for myself."

He smiled. "Oh. Understood." He shuffled the books together. "I'll put these away… do you want to lie down upstairs for a while?"

She thought for a moment. "No…" she said hesitantly. "I'd—I'd rather sleep down here, I think."

/ / /

She actually looked relaxed.

It was like 'the good old days' from a million years ago, sitting in a chair, watching her sleep. A soft _snrrk_ made him smile; she still snored, too.

A grandmother. His Elizabeth was a _grandmother_. Three times a grandmother.

If they had just found each other, somehow… All those years of his mother longing for grandchildren—if he had adopted Tori, that would have been family enough for his mother. A granddaughter? Three great-grandchildren? God, she would have been over the moon. He sighed. _Not __this __lifetime. __It __just __wasn__'__t __meant __to __be._ He sighed. _Damn__it._

She slept, a faint smile on her lips. Pleasant dreams… How often had she been in his dreams? Too often. Those first months apart, all he could do was think of her, dream of her. It didn't get better over time, even after the phone call intercepted by her mother. If anything, it got worse. Julia had been so understanding, so sympathetic—a little too much so. It had pricked something in his mind, but she was so convincing… He believed her. He walked away—flew away, actually, and lost himself in back-to-back tours of hell. When he finally rotated home he told himself if he could just find her, talk to her, hear her side of the story… but it was no good. It was if she had been washed out with the tide. The Andrew Stewarts listed in the directory (six, from the San Fernando Valley to Long Beach) were the wrong ones. USC listed him as retired, no forwarding information. None of the Addams's had Gene or even Eugene as a first name. Madalena was an uncommon enough first name—but if he'd ever heard her last name, he had forgotten it.

Gone. She was gone, and life had to go on. And so it did—without the woman he'd fallen in love with by his side.

There were other women—he loved them, yes… but never like Elizabeth. He could picture himself with them for a month, a year, even a few years—but not for the rest of his life, not the sharing of days into decades.

What had he ever done to piss off Julia Stewart to the point that she would lie to her youngest child, lie to him, just to keep them apart? She hadn't liked him from the start, though she'd managed to fool all of them toward the end. But why? Tori's comment that she didn't want her daughters marrying medical students brought back a memory of Edward Langley and Amanda—as a med student herself, Mandy had known Dr. Stewart for years and, consequently, his wife. She had said something about Tish having a romance that her mother had broken up; Ducky was sure it had been a doctor or a medical student.

So much for mothers always wanting their daughters to marry a doctor.

He reached over and ran his finger over her jaw line. She'd had a good surgeon; it had healed very neatly, with only the faintest of scars. Brilliant move on her mother's part—instead of marrying the man she loved, she was pushed into marrying a man who—God only knew why—delighted in beating the living hell out of her.

He stilled his hand as she turned over slightly in her sleep, instinctively resting her cheek against his palm. He carefully slid his hand out, trying to not disturb her. She murmured something and then was quiet.

To keep from disturbing her, he allowed himself the luxury of wandering about the house. Rowena hadn't had enough time to finish her tour, and it wasn't as though he was being _nosy_—all the doors were open…

The music room was like a trip down memory lane. He was willing to bet the piano was from her parents' house—and he recognized the guitar in the corner as one she had decorated. Another guitar, a six-string acoustic, had been hand painted, a beautiful fantasy scene of a castle, dragon and a princess, wonderfully detailed painting and minute glittering bits. Evidently Elizabeth had continued her artistic endeavors, or had encouraged one of the children.

With three children in residence at some point, a playroom was a logical find. Not the nursery playrooms he recalled from his youth, this room would appeal to any age. Stacks of board games on shelves (a beat-up Scrabble box among them); large plastic containers were stacked in a corner with "woodcarving," paint and stuff," "glittery crap" and other identifying labels on the sides. A regulation billiard table sat, covered, in the middle of the room; another table in the corner bore the legend "Pro Air Hockey" on the side. Comfortable, if battered, furniture was scattered about the room; the children probably had friends over at all hours. He remembered the trouble they'd had with Bronwyn's friends and his jaw tightened slightly.

He strolled through the back yard. Given that Rowena was old enough to drive, the play equipment probably hadn't been used in years, but it was well maintained and made an attractive focus. Flagstone walks, flowerbeds starting to fade with the early fall chill, large redwood swing with a bench large enough to lie on—it was all quite lovely. He strolled back through the playroom, noting a large, cluttered sewing room next to it and checked on Elizabeth as he passed through to the library: still asleep.

Just like her office at work, she had photographs tucked into every nook and corner. Most were family and, he assumed, friends, but some were of cats and dogs with the kids—family pets, undoubtedly. He recognized Robbie, the Stewarts' collie, sitting up on his hind legs while Tish dangled a treat above. Rowena rubbed noses with a small and extremely fluffy kitten in another picture, while Bronwyn peered, cross-eyed, through a fish tank, the water filled with brightly colored fish.

A very soft 'miau' made him look down. On the carpet sat the kitten from Rowena's picture, now a cat so huge he would have thought it was a stuffed toy if he hadn't seen it blink. Another faint 'mew' and the cat turned around and left the room as silently as she had entered. Ducky looked after the cat in astonishment; how could anything so enormous be so quiet? And what the heck kind of housecat gets _that_ big? He shook his head.

Graduation pictures, birthday pictures, pictures from amusement parks—Tori was right, Elizabeth was keeping Kodak in the black. He sighed; oh, to have pictures like this all over his house… He didn't have to look at the date to know the picture was from April; Rowena and Elizabeth played bookends for an enormous cake decorated in pink and gold. Pink was dedicated to the 10s that decorated the cake while gold was—appropriately, he felt—for the 50s. Grandma's fiftieth birthday was apparently a big celebration, as it should be.

He glanced at the digital date stamp, frowning faintly. April 6. Elizabeth had said they celebrated precisely between their birth dates—the 4th for her, 8th for Rowena, split it in the middle for the 6th. April 6, 2003.

His hand shook as he returned the picture to the shelf. He felt lightheaded, his hands chill and he struggled to catch an even breath. There had to be a mistake. He had to be wrong.

Oh, there had been a mistake all right.

Boy—_had __he __been __wrong._

* * *

><p>13<p> 


	14. Sonata Ad Libitum

**Chapter Fourteen: Sonata Ad Libitum**

_**Sonata:** Music of a particular  
>form consisting of<br>four movements. Each  
>of the movements differs in<br>tempo, rhythm, and melody;  
>but is held together by subject and style.<br>__**Ad ****Libitum:** At liberty; i.e.,  
>the speed and manner of execution<br>are left to the performer._

* * *

><p><strong>June 11, 1969<strong>

"Welcome to the Napa Marquis."

When packing for the trip, Dennys had told Donald that his wardrobe was simply not going to pass muster during the show. He loaned him several Mexican shirts and a pair of blue jeans and a couple of smock-like tops he called "faire garb" and gathered pants that went well with them insisting that he had to fit in if he was going to go with them. Donald countered that they would occasionally be called upon to look like reasonable adults as opposed to hippies down from the local commune and provided Dennys with some dressier shirts and slacks, since Dennys had parted with anything remotely stiff and formal when leaving the service. (When Elizabeth pointed out that neither had footwear that would go with their new outfits, they humbly followed her to the nearest shoe store and let her make the selections.)

Now, faced with a desk clerk with an uncertain look on his face, it was a good thing they'd opted to change into 'grown-up' clothing an hour outside of town. Madalena had her wild hair pinned up in a neat bun and wore a sleek dark green pantsuit; Tish and Elizabeth were in demure blouses and knee-length skirts with matching jackets, Tish putting the final touch to her role with a choker of pearls. Gene wore his go-to-lunch-with-head-of-production suit; Donald, slacks, sport coat, button-down shirt and a damned tie; and Dennys—well, Dennys' outfit looked like it came out of Donald's closet (because it had) but there wasn't much to be done about his hair, so they kept him to the back of the group as much as possible. All in all, they looked pretty darned respectable.

It was just a little… odd… for three men and three women to check into one three-room suite together, and the only three sharing the same last name were siblings. The clerk was probably wondering if the vice squad was hot on their heels.

But an eminent physician from the University of Southern California had made the reservation and was accepting all billing for the rooms—and the appearance of his line of credit wiped out any oddities of the group at the desk. The ladies were given keys to room 1049; the gentlemen, 1053.

Eddie would have called it swank. And he would have been dead on.

The two bedrooms each had two king-sized beds, comfortable wingback chairs and a large round table, large dressers and a private bath. The sitting room between them had a large couch, several chairs and low tables, a large television—and a small but serviceable kitchen. Elizabeth looked at the kitchen with interest, but Tish rolled her eyes. "Room service, baby, room service. Dad's picking up the tab—live a little." She patted her sister's head in passing. "I know you cook better than they do, but—put your feet up and relax for once."

It was highly doubtful that anyone would pay attention to them a day and a half before the concert was set to begin, but keeping identities secret was ingrained in their habits. So while the girls unpacked in one room, Dennys, Gene and Donald unloaded the equipment, costumes, music and such from the vehicles and slipped it up to the sitting room.

"Listen—there's a market down the road, let's hit it for some supplies." Donald looked at Dennys in confusion. "Food?" the man who would someday be his brother-in-law elaborated. "I know Tish said no cooking but, man, I am not calling down to room service at three a.m. for some freakin' Oreos and milk."

Donald laughed. "Understood. Where to?"

"Lemme see…" Dennys pulled a folded wad of papers from his jacket pocket. "Sassy wrote it all down…"

Donald shook his head. "She's amazing. How does she know how to find _any_thing _any_where?"

Dennys pondered the question for a moment. "I don't know. She just… does. She's kinda magic that way." He flipped through the first pages, directions to the hotel. "Okay, got it. You drive?"

"Sure."

"I'll mind the fort," Gene said. He had already turned on the television and was changing into more comfortable clothing.

When they returned an hour later laden with every non-nutritious food item possible—chips, cookies, sodas and the like (as well as plenty of milk for the Oreos), plus a few items with some nutritional value that Donald had thrown in for balance—Gene was asleep on the couch while _Password_ played quietly in the background. "Where are the womenfolk?" Dennys grumbled as they unloaded grocery bags from the luggage trolly.

Donald knocked lightly on the connecting door. The murmur of soft voices ceased and the door opened. "May I help you?" Tish asked in an overly-polite voice. She, like Gene, had changed to something more relaxing, as had Maddie and Elizabeth behind her.

"Just wanted to let you know we made a run to the supermarket for some snack things."

She peered over his shoulder. "Cool. Cokes!" She sprinted past him, grabbed three bottles and ducked back in—and shut the door.

He turned to Dennys. "I think I've been snubbed."

"Nah." Gene sat up, yawning. "They've been in there the whole time—talk, talk, talk, talk, _talk_."

"Don, you'd better learn something now." Dennys popped the cap on a bottle of soda and nodded it toward Donald for emphasis. "I don't care if they're born in the family or marry in, you get Stewart women together and you may as well give up. They will talk you to death if they all gang together. Just… accept that as a fact of life. You'll save yourself a lot of grief." He shifted his shoulders. "No offense, man, but I gotta get outta this monkey suit."

"None taken." Donald was stripping off his jacket and tie as he spoke. He followed Dennys into the other room and pulled more casual clothing from his bag. "When in Rome…"

"Eat pizza?" Dennys suggested.

Donald grinned. "Excellent dinner suggestion… if I can stay awake long enough to eat it, that is."

/ / / / /

**June 12, 2009**

"Ghirardelli Square."

"No, Fisherman's Wharf, first!"

"Well, we can't let Donald go back home without seeing Lombard Street. He hasn't even been to Disneyland, for Pete's sake!"

Donald laughed as Elizabeth, Tish and then Gene kicked in ideas for how to spend their one totally free day.

"Why don't we just stay up here and take a winery tour?" Maddie suggested.

"We'll be here all weekend, we can do that any day," Dennys countered reasonably. "I vote for lunch in Chinatown."

"Well, that's a given," Tish said. "And cable car to get there."

"Fair enough."

"Suggestion?" Maddie raised her hand. "I vote we take two cars."

"We can all fit in one—" Gene started.

"Oh, no question on that. I was thinking if some of us poop out earlier than the others, we don't have some people hanging around trying to stay conscious, or the other group feeling like they got ripped off of their day off."

"Good suggestion," Tish admitted. "Or do we want to take all three?"

"Overkill. Two is plenty," Madalena said.

"I'm willing to drive," Donald quickly volunteered. For one thing, he was getting pretty cocky about his driving skills. For another… he was still a little tired from the drive up and the late night of pizza and badly played poker hands. He might be one of the party to poop out. "Provided I can get directions, that is."

Madalena grinned. "Navy brat. Dad was stationed at Alameda. I learned to drive in San Francisco. You name it… I can get you there."

/ / /

It was less than an hour's drive to San Francisco and traffic was fairly light (according to Madalena, the heavy traffic happened on the weekend, when people would run up from Los Angeles for a quick getaway). She led the two-car caravan to a municipal parking lot and stopped by a kiosk to buy a map.

"I thought you learned to drive in Frisco," Dennys teased.

"Drive, yes. Walk, no," she retorted. "And don't call it 'Frisco.'" She spread the map out on the back of Gene's car. "Okay… breakfast. Chinatown?" she joked. At the chorus of negative comments, she said, "Okay, okay… Uncle Bill's Pancake House. They make kick-ass sourdough waffles and pancakes. Yummy."

Donald was pretty adventurous, but… "_Sourdough_… pancakes?"

"Much better than they sound," Elizabeth assured him. "Would I ever steer you wrong about food?"

He grinned down at her. "You never steer me wrong about anything," he murmured.

"Hey, no flirtin' with my sister," Dennys protested, only half-teasing.

"You don't pitch a bitch about me hitting on Tish," Gene protested mildly.

Tish snorted. "He did two years ago."

Gene frowned. "Oh yeah. That's right."

Donald turned his smile to Dennys. "Well, you'd better get used to it, because two years from now it'll be a permanent thing."

"Good. Then you can flirt with her… in two years." His tone was teasing, but Donald still wasn't entirely sure where they stood.

"Denny…" With an impish grin, Madalena pulled him aside and whispered in his ear.

Dennys frowned, disconcerted. "Let's get breakfast," he said abruptly, turning and leading the way down the street.

Elizabeth pulled away from Donald's hand and caught up with Madalena. After a couple of quiet comments between the two, Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth and allowed the group to pull in front of her.

Donald caught her free hand and continued walking. "What did I miss?" he asked quietly.

She was still trying to stifle her giggles. "Well… Maddie told him he'd better lay off the two of us… or else."

"Or else… what?" he asked with trepidation.

Another barely muffled giggle. "For _each_… and _every_… comment… or dirty look… or _anything_… she won't sleep with him."

"Ohhhhh." Poor Dennys.

"For a month."

Donald barely bit back a snort of laughter. "Boy… it's tempting…"

She gave him a wicked look. "To really go at it and see which side wins—defending my virtue or sleeping with his fiancée?" He waggled his eyebrows at her. "I like it." She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and slipped her arms around his waist. "A lot."

It was the kind of deep, delicious kiss that crept into his dreams almost every night. Damn, he wished they had stayed back at the hotel! He reluctantly broke the kiss, saying, "Madalena didn't say anything about punishment if he kills me." He dropped a kiss to her forehead. "Come on."

Dennys didn't say a word when they caught up with the group. Not a single word.

/ / /

By lunch Donald had come to the conclusion that Madalena needed to switch careers from costume designer to tour guide. In less than six hours they had done a whirlwind tour of San Francisco from Fisherman's Wharf to Ghirardelli Square (where Elizabeth spent a fortune on chocolate, chocolate cookbooks, candy making tools and who knew what else), from the mechanical museum at Cliff House to pictures taken at the famed Haight-Ashbury corner, from the Maritime Museum to lunch in Chinatown (where the food made Donald decide to suggest living in the States—in San Francisco—as a definite post-marriage option). And, by the time the fortune cookies arrived, he was beat. But he was also polite, and was not going to be the one to rain on her parade around the city of her teenage years.

But if he was beat, Elizabeth was done in. Nervous about performing under two names and keeping both under wraps, she had barely slept all week. She had napped on the 8-hour drive up to Napa, but not well, and had fallen asleep halfway through the pizza and poker session the night before.

"Would you like to go back to the hotel, take a nap?" he whispered as they rode the cable car back from lunch.

"No, no, I'm fine. Just a yawn," she said with forced brightness.

She was plainly being polite for the sake of a visitor who had never been to San Francisco and might not be again. Well, then it was up to him. "I'm thinking of taking a quick nap in the car to recharge my batteries."

"Oh, honey—don't stay because of me, I'd be happy to go back to the hotel with you." Fortunately, the wind wisped around them as the cable car chugged and clanged down the street, so nobody else heard her comment. She closed her eyes and tried to repress a smile. She was less successful with the blush that crept up her cheeks. "I mean, I _am_ a little tired. I wouldn't mind going to bed myself." Now she winced. "I'm going to quit while I'm behind."

Donald laughed and gathered her close for a one-armed hug. "No, keep talking," he murmured. "I was enjoying where you were heading."

She grinned up at him… then deflated the moment by yawning hugely. "I am _so_ sorry!"

"Maddie?" When she looked up from her tourist map, he smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I think Elizabeth and I are going to cut things short. She's all but falling over and I'm starting to fade out, too."

She looked at Elizabeth and made a slight face. "Yeah, you're getting circles under your eyes, babe. You'd better go back, take a hot bath and sleep until we get back for dinner." She passed the word to Dennys, who peered at Elizabeth and nodded. At the end of the line, they all hopped off and regrouped. "Wait, wait—one last picture!" Maddie thrust her camera into the hands of a passerby and arranged their troupe so that the Golden Gate Bridge was their background. Donald and Elizabeth stood in the middle, Maddie and Dennys to their left, Tish and Gene to the right. He pulled her back against him, cheek resting on her head, arms wrapped around her, hands lightly resting on her stomach and her hands atop his, the other couples in similar poses. The drafted photographer was kind enough to take several shots, and swore they all looked good. "Copies for everyone, I promise," Madalena said. "Back to the hotel, you—we'll be there by dinner."

"We'll save you seats," Donald promised.

Maddie tugged his elbow. "She doesn't perform until mid-afternoon, but she's whipped. She needs to get some sleep," she said quietly

"She will. I promise."

She caught his eye. "_Alone_, Donald."

"Maddie!"

"There's plenty of time for that later—"

"With you and Tish in the room?" he managed to retort.

She rolled her eyes. "So we stay late for Shakespeare on Saturday. I'm just saying she needs to sleep at least ten hours out of the next twenty-four. Okay?"

"Okay."

"After that…" She grinned. "Hey, they _do_ have a great Shakespeare fest this weekend…"

Shaking his head, he walked off to collect Elizabeth from her sister. "Hey, do you mind taking our junk back with you so it doesn't sit in the car?" Tish asked.

"Sure, toss it in the trunk." He was proud of himself—six weeks, and he'd stopped calling it 'the boot.'

Elizabeth was asleep before they left the city.

It was tempting to sit in the hotel parking lot with his head knocked against the other window and just sleep where they were, but it was bound to be uncomfortable when they woke up. But she looked so sweet, so fresh and innocent when she slept, it seemed criminal to disturb her. He sighed, remembering Maddie's teasing; yeah—she did look innocent. Very. In an age where virginity was often lost long before one's first vote was cast she was a little bit of an anomaly. She turned over, yawned and blinked her eyes sleepily at him and he grinned. But an adorable and sexy anomaly nonetheless. "Let's get you upstairs and into bed."

"I've been _waiting_ for you to say that. God, I was beginning to think you never would," she mumbled, stumbling out of the car. Donald sat for a moment, mouth slightly ajar. Damn; why had he promised Maddie that Elizabeth would sleep alone?

He didn't quite keep his promise—but he didn't break it, either. He dumped a staggering number of bags in the sitting room to be sorted later, propelled Elizabeth into the girls' room, half led her to/half dropped her on the bed, gave her a quick kiss goodnight and returned to the sitting room. He turned on the television to lull himself to sleep and plopped into a corner of the couch, legs extended to the chair he dragged over to serve as an ottoman.

"_You_ watch _Dark_ _Shadows_?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin. "Yes, and don't sneak up on someone watching vampires in the daytime." He hadn't even heard her slip out of the room. "One of my patients got me hooked on the silly thing."

"Next thing I know—" she yawned and padded over to the couch. "You'll be watching _Days __of __Our __Lives_."

"There, I draw the line." He smiled as she flopped on to the couch, grabbed a pillow and laid her head on his lap. "Comfy?"

"Uh-huh." Within seconds she was asleep and snoring very softly.

He kissed the tip of his finger and touched it to her lips. "Goodnight, Mrs. Mallard," he whispered.

/ / /

"I have a question."

"Yes, my beloved husband?"

"Do you _ever_ look bad?"

She grinned. "You like?"

"A lot." She managed to combine ladylike and achingly sexy in one outfit. A form-fitting top with a low neck and long sleeves, and tiny buttons down the front. Ankle length skirt with yards of material. All white lace and cotton. Actually, it looked like a hippie-style wedding gown. He gave her a matching grin at the thought.

"Thank you." She bobbed a quick curtsey, making her breasts jostle enticingly. "Are we meeting everyone downstairs for dinner?"

That put a damper on his thought of saying the hell with dinner and seeing how fast he could undo those buttons. "I assume so. Haven't heard from them since after lunch and it's almost six. I called down a reservation for two that might turn into six. I'm sure the maître d' loved that."

"He'll live." She made sure her key was tucked in a pocket and slipped out through the door he held open for her. "You are such a gentleman," she teased affectionately. In the elevator ride to the garden restaurant he proved to her that he wasn't one hundred percent gentleman—to her definite delight.

After politely nibbling breadsticks and appetizers for over fifteen minutes, they decided the others could simply make a foursome while they played in the pool after their dinner and went ahead with ordering. They selected nearly identical meals of the house specialty—prime rib and all the goodies—and Donald ordered a half carafe of a recommended local wine. He carefully poured two glasses and held one up as a salute. "To my beautiful, intelligent wife and our future together." He knew it was still a wait of two years, but believed in his heart as she did: their wedding lines were written in the two names on her wrist.

She ducked her head and smiled. "I can't imagine feeling more like your wife than I do now."

He reached over and took her hand in both of his. "No?" He gave her his most suggestive look and she turned a delicate pink.

"Well…" she hedged with a soft laugh. "I guess I _could_ be wrong."

He rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand. "I feel as though I'm in a science fiction movie."

That brought her up short. "How so?" she asked, head cocked.

"Well… I know that I've only known you for six weeks." _And __will __only __have __you __another __two._ "But… I feel as though I've known you all my life. So we must be in some sort of time travel story."

She stared at his thumb gently caressing her hand. "Any chance we could leap forward two years?"

He let out a deep sigh. "God, I wish." He leaned over the table and kissed her very softly, mindful of their public place and the probable lack of understanding from the other patrons—whose average age was at least 20 years beyond theirs.

"Madam… sir…" The waiter set down chilled salads and discretely stepped away.

/ / /

"Okay, I am not going home until I get this recipe." Elizabeth had the kind of ecstatic look on her face that he associated with dim lighting and partial nudity.

"What is it?" Donald had yet to put a fork into his dessert, a cross between cream pie and cheesecake, with one layer flavored by Kahlua and the other by Amaretto. Having never tried either liqueur, it sounded too interesting to pass up.

"Dark chocolate… hazelnut… torte… with raspberries." She carved off a bite and held it out, fingertips brushing his chin for guidance. "Try it."

It was pretty impressive. "Your turn." He carefully cut through the tall layers of fluff.

"No, that's yours—you should have the first bite." He dutifully obeyed—the mix of coffee, chocolate and almond was fantastic. He offered up the second bite, and she actually groaned when she bit. "Oh, _God_… I have to get that, too. Have you _ever_ eaten anything so good?" When he was silent, she looked up, questioning.

He gave her a playfully lewd smile. "Oh, yeah. I have."

"Donald!" Her shocked laugh was quiet, but her blush wasn't.

"Well, you _asked_…"

"True." She leaned forward, meeting him halfway across the table. "And that is a… lovely… compliment." She kissed him, her smile definitely on the naughty side.

"And most sincere." Her smile slowly faded; he stared into her eyes, knowing they mirrored his own want and frustration. By tacit agreement they returned to their desserts and wistful silence.

Instructing the waiter to place the charge on the room tab, they lingered over coffee and the end of the wine (Donald drank most of it, belatedly discovering that Elizabeth loved to cook with wine but was not overly fond of drinking it); still no sign of the rest of their crowd. "Would you like to… dance?" Donald asked hesitantly, hearing the small orchestra start playing _As __Time __Goes __By._ He had once heard a description of dancing as 'sex while standing up and fully clothed.' Well, it was better than nothing—although the night was going to be more frustrating than he had faced the past weeks, with her just a room away.

"I'd love to." She gave him an embarrassed smile. "I'll try not to step on your toes too much."

Since they were dancing standard ballroom dances as opposed to the Renaissance dance Maddie had taught them, every time Donald would step forward, Elizabeth would step back—there was actually more danger of her toes being trod upon than his. After several turns around the floor with no collision or bloodshed she began to relax, moving closer and nestling her head on his shoulder. He glanced down and smiled, enjoying the teasing glance of her bosom granted by the low scoop of her neckline. He brushed a kiss over the top of her head. "I love you."

She sighed, smiling. "I love you, Donald."

Sex while standing up and fully clothed. God, he'd much rather be lying down and holding her naked body against his. Hmm; Tish and the others still had to eat dinner—perhaps if they stole up to the room now…

No, with his luck they would have decided they were running late and grabbed a quick bite before leaving town—and unlike the entertainment room in the house, any of the three hotel doors were mere feet from where any action would be occurring.

Two years. Good God, two years.

"I wish it were 1971." Thus proving that they did frequently read each other's thoughts.

"I know." He lightly stroked her back. "But… at least classes will start soon. You'll have something to keep you occupied."

"I'm just worried that you'll go back to England, forget all about me…" Her tone was teasing, but he could hear a drop of worry underneath.

He kissed her, long enough that he was sure they received some 'tsk-tsk' raised eyebrows—but he didn't care. "Never. You are the other half of my soul, Ealasaid." Perhaps it was taking an unfair advantage to use her Gaelic name, but who ever said he played fair?

"Elizabeth Stewart… Elizabeth Stewart…"

Donald led them to the outside of the dance floor and held up a hand. The bellboy scurried over with an envelope, handed it to Elizabeth and accepted the quarters Donald hastily dug out of his pocket.

"Oh, no!"

"What's wrong?"

"Here." She handed over the pink message slip.

The block printing was tiny but legible. _To __Elizabeth __Stewart. __From __Patricia __Stewart. __Urgent. __Purple __people __eater __blew __water __pump._ Donald chuckled; the operator must have gotten a laugh at that. _Replacement __available __in __a.m. __Back __by __noon __guaranteed__. __Overnighting __in __S.F._ He turned over the slip and grinned. _P.S. __Make __sure __to __have __fun __while __we__'__re __gone._

"What's so funny? They're stuck in San Francisco!"

"Yes. _They__'__re_ stuck in San Francisco." He handed the note back, turned over to the back side and pointed to the line she had missed.

"Oh." A smile slowly appeared on her face. "_Oh_." She looked up at him, a glint in her eye. "_They__'__re_ stuck in San Francisco."

Stuck in San Francisco… for the night, a night he could spend _alone_ with the woman of his dreams. No furtive loving in the back row of the drive in; no worries that someone might burst into the room at an inopportune moment; no careful positioning between pool lights to stay in the shadows…

Scattered applause from the other dancers caught their attention as the song ended. After a moment, the band started up again and he led her back to the dance floor and into a slow waltz. He smiled down at her as the vocalist sang the lyrics to the old Irving Berlin song. He half-sang along, murmuring in her ear. "_I__'__ll __be __loving __you__… __always__… __with __a __love __that__'__s __true__… __always__…"_

She smiled and cuddled her head on his shoulder. "Always," she sighed.

"We'll dance to this on our anniversary."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

She considered for a moment. "I like that. Makes it traditional."

Their turns around the floor were becoming smaller and smaller, until they were turning in tiny circles in the same spot. "Caught you in another lie."

She pulled back slightly. "What?" she asked in mildly offended tones.

He grinned down at her. "You said you could barely dance. I beg to differ."

"Oh." She smiled coquettishly. "Well… I guess that just depends on who's leading." She accepted his brief kiss with another smile. "I don't want to dance with anyone else, ever again."

"Ah, now that will be a problem."

"Oh?"

"Well, it depends upon where I post. If it's private practice, you're safe. For the most part. But there would be the hospital Christmas party—"

"True, true."

"Or if I'm attached to a university, faculty mixers—"

"Oh, those mixers."

"So… you see the problem."

"I don't see any problem." She grinned. "We'll just do all of our dancing at home. Alone." She continued to stare up at him, her pupils widening. "I… don't want to dance with anyone else. Ever," she said softly.

They sure as hell weren't talking about a polka.

"Neither do I." The music ended and he leaned over to touch a brief kiss to her lips. He couldn't imagine loving another woman as he did Elizabeth. Not his heart… not his soul... He let out a long, steadying breath. Definitely not his body.

"Happy anniversary," she whispered. He cocked his head, confused. She laid her hand on his chest as they continued to sway in time to the music of the next tune (he hadn't even noticed the change in music). "We've been 'married' for almost two weeks." She glanced at her wrist, at the promise—no, _vow_—of marriage to follow.

_Whoa_. He knew it was only half-joking, in name only for the moment—but there was something about just the word that made his head spin… and not in a bad way. "My wife." He touched his forehead to hers. "Forever."

Her lips curved in a smile. "My husband. First… and only." She reached up and kissed him—sedate because of their venue but, God, the promises it held. "Let's go out to the garden," she whispered.

The landscaper for the Marquis had taken the idea of an old English garden and run with it full speed ahead. Large patches of flowers had small seats for resting; bowers of vines and arches hid benches for a bit more privacy. It was one of those benches, hidden among twining honeysuckle and jasmine, where Elizabeth and Donald sought refuge.

For several minutes conversation was held at bay while they kissed, a long, slow touch broken only to kiss each other again and again. Donald carefully scooped her up from her seat next to him, drawing her onto his lap to make further exploration easier, to give each other ready access to touch, to caress, to adore the other.

Elizabeth slid her hand behind his neck, holding him as her kisses grew in fervor. Damn, she could kiss! Just imagining being married to her, coming home to this every night… He groaned when she took his hand, resting at her waist, and moved it to her breast, pressing firmly. His fingers nimbly opened the tiny buttons and loops, hand slipping inside; she was wearing a very shallow bra—it was effortless to slip her breast above it, cradled in his hand. Secure that they were well hidden from view, he bent his head and licked and suckled the rock-hand nipple, enjoying her tiny gasps of pleasure.

"Donald…" Just his name, a soft plea.

It took a little wriggling, but he was able to free her other breast, quickly giving it an equal amount of loving attention. "Beautiful," he murmured, hugging her gently and nestling between them, rubbing his cheek to her chest.

She lightly stroked his forehead, his temples, combing her fingers through his hair, then tipped his chin up to stare into his eyes. "I love you." Her voice was so soft he could barely hear the words.

The evening light was so dark her eyes almost looked black. There was something in her gaze he'd never seen before, something strong—no… resolute was more the word. She had come to a decision… and he was pretty sure he knew what that decision was. Two weeks ago she had asked him to make her his wife—to make love to her. He sat up and cupped her cheek in his hand. "Would you like to go upstairs?"

She smiled slowly and closed her eyes. She covered his hand with her own, turning to feather a kiss to his palm. It was an incredibly arousing touch and he found himself responding appropriately. She leaned over and brushed her lips over his ear. "If I go upstairs with you… do you promise to make love to me?"

_God, __if __you __keep __playing __with __my __ear __like __that, __I__'__ll __make __love __to __you __here __and __now! _"You're sure? Sure you want to?" One desperate attempt at being noble. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel guilty, like she'd been talked into the dirty deed.

"Very." She gave him an open grin.

"Maybe you should think about this… it's not like taking something back to the store and asking for a refund—"

Elizabeth laughed. "Donald! I'm sure I won't be asking for a refund!"

He colored up sharply. "No, it's—I mean—"

"I know… _exactly_… what you mean." She slipped her arms around his waist and leaned against his shoulder. "It's like cutting your hair. Once it's done—it's done. You can't glue it back together. You just want to make sure I'm not going to regret it."

He let out a deep sigh. "Yes."

"I won't." She smiled. "I _have_ thought about this. _Every_ _day_. You know, it's been two weeks, I'm starting to think you don't _want_ to make love with me."

Donald drew in a shaky breath. Oh… quite the contrary. He had found her gentle 'make me your wife' endearing… but this more confident Elizabeth, able to look him in the eye and ask him to make love to her, tease him about it, was intriguing. And arousing. "Ealasaid… I want to make love with you every minute of every day." He kissed her, hard. "I have wanted to make love to you since before I met you. I dream of you every night…" He actually groaned. "Oh, _God_ do I dream of you." His erection nudged her thigh for emphasis.

She turned pink, but grinned nonetheless. "Hmm. Maybe we should have dinner, first. Energy for the long night ahead."

"We already did."

"Oh!" She gave a slight gasp in mock surprise. "So we did." She turned and grasped his face in her hands. "In that case…" She was breathing hard and her eyes glittered dangerously. She kissed him, hungry, desperate kisses; from her interest in reciprocation after the first time he'd licked her to sweet orgasms (shy interest, true, but genuine) it was easy to imagine her slow sucking of something other than his tongue and he gave a low moan, feeling his erection strain at the confines of his pants. "In that case," she repeated, nibbling his ear and panting, "will you _please_ take me upstairs and fuck me before I go crazy?"

She didn't have to ask again.

/ / /

Nervous? Probably.

Bashful? A little.

Scared? Maybe.

Aroused? Oh, _hell_ yes.

Donald didn't clearly remember the journey from the garden to the suite. He had vague memories of clothing being replaced well enough to pass for respectability at a distance, of holding her hard to him in the elevator ride that took forever and her cry of, "Oh, _God!_" when she rubbed up against his hardness, his hands squeezing her buttocks and holding her close, closer still, of checking the security latch on all three doors just in case, God forbid, the message was wrong and they were surprised again—then there was clothing flung every which way and they were both gloriously naked, standing in the middle of the room and holding tightly to each other, crazy kisses being dropped on each other's face, neck, shoulders, lips… He was actually shaking with want and was desperate to slow himself down. No matter how much she wanted this (my God, she really _did_ say 'fuck me!') he was not going to have their first time be a hundred meter sprint.

Of course, it would a lot easier to keep that resolve if she didn't have a hand wrapped around his erection, stroking it slowly and gently. But it felt so _good_…!

He walked them backward toward the bed; still holding on to her with one arm, he reached back, fumbling, and stripped down the covers. Another couple of maneuvers and they fell in a heap on the floor. Covers were for sleeping under; an unfettered bed was easier for good, romping sex.

God bless medical textbooks—and the children of doctors, who pored through them on the sly. She was totally comfortable in her nakedness and neither horrified of nor frightened by his, something he'd come up against in the past. If anything, the sight turned her on as much as seeing her almost made him come on the spot. At least, he assumed her half-sighed, half-whined, "Ohhhhhhh," was one of pleasure and interest.

They tangled together on the bed, hands roaming freely, unstopped by clothing. "Oh, God, you're beautiful," she blurted out.

Donald smiled. "I think that's my line."

"It's funny, I've seen you swim so many times, but…" She ran her hands over his chest. "You look so…" She licked her lips. "So _wow_ right now…" She leaned over and took a nipple between her lips, nipping lightly.

"Oh, I like that," he encouraged. She had a leg looped behind him and he could smell her arousal, hot, musky and sweet. He curled his fingers through her hair, rubbing her scalp, something he knew she enjoyed; she wriggled and moved closer, moving to suck the other nipple. His other hand stroked her back, lazy circles moving lower and lower, then over her hip… She willingly moved her leg to give him easier access, knowing what he planned and wanting it. His fingers slipped in easily and quickly found a languid rhythm, meeting the thrusts of her hips. He slipped forward to gently flick the swollen tip of her clitoris, enjoying the soft moan of pleasure when he did. Then his fingers moved back, an imitation of what he couldn't wait to do with the swollen cock she still caressed. Back and forth, back and forth getting her more aroused… He turned over, laying her down, and quickly moved down to push her into a quivering climax. He let her relax a few minutes, stroking her thigh and inhaling her scent, then kissed her, plunging his tongue deep into her body and causing her to arch back sharply.

"Oh! Oh, again!" she begged, and he gladly complied, over and over. He slipped his tongue in and out, quick and deep, then sucking lightly on her opening. She was twisting under his hands, writhing, trying to pull away and push closer at the same time. He trailed his tongue up and flicked the tip against the hard point, listening to her cries and gasps mount. He continued to thrust his fingers in and out until she reached down and pushed his hand against her hard, actually screaming, "Oh, God!" as she came, clenching down on his fingers. He didn't give in, continuing to suck the tender flesh until she climaxed a third time, trembling and barely able to manage a low moan. He loved to make her come—and she loved what he did to get her there.

He knelt, sitting back on his heels, staring at her as she slowly came down. Her chest was flushed; one hand was flung above her head, the other draped across her stomach. She looked absolutely sated. After a moment, she looked at him through slitted eyes and smiled—yes, he'd call that wantonly. He gave her his own rather randy smile. "Ready for more?"

"More?" She looked interested.

"Well, I'm just curious…" He reached out and ran the tip of his finger down her ribcage. "How many times…" His finger progressed down her belly, getting a quiver in response. "I can make you come…" He trailed through the tight curls and started to lightly stroke her clitoris again.

"And here I was thinking… mmmmh," she purred as he continued to caress her. "Oh, God, you're making hard _to_ think… I was thinking… maybe you could help me learn… how to suck you?"

Oh, sweet Jesus, he was having a stroke. He couldn't move. He couldn't talk. He couldn't think. Hell, he couldn't _breathe_.

Her words sounded so sweet, so innocent. Most young women he'd known—literally, Biblically or otherwise—were fairly willing to perform oral sex even if they weren't enthusiastic. But all of them were definitely long past the days of giving up their virginity.

And here she was… _wanting_ to learn?

"You know what to… ah, expect?" he managed, still lightly caressing her.

"Mmmmh," she murmured, smiling. Maybe the fact that he was petting her to another orgasm made it easier to talk about the subject. "I actually had some—discussions about it."

He was _not_ going to ask 'with whom?' Not in a million years. Well, not until later, anyway—even though he had a pretty good idea of the name.

"Ohhhhh." She let out a quivering sigh, shifting her hips. He read the rhythm and slipped his fingers into her, slow and steady. Another deep purring noise of contentment. "Sooooo—oh, that's nice… _soooo_, I know what to expect. Yes." She gasped as he lightly sucked her clitoris. "Oh, yes!" she cried when he set to licking her gently, pushing her toward another climax.

"Come for me," he urged. His tongue flicked quickly, and she was starting to shake. "Come for me, honey."

It was the best one yet. She clenched the sheets, back arching, crying, "Yes! God, yes!" repeatedly.

He slowly moved up to snuggle up with her, nipping her ear. "I think…" he whispered. "You… need… to… rest a few moments." She panted, unable to form words. "I will _love_… to have you suck me." He was actually only semi-erect at the moment, having expended his own energies in pleasuring Elizabeth. "For a moment, though… rest." He ran his tongue around the shell of her ear. "I love to make you come," he whispered.

"I know," she managed to say with a gulp. After a second, she gave a tiny laugh. "And, God, I love having you do it." She turned and gave him a lazy kiss. "If I can make you feel half as good," she sighed.

"You will," he laughed. "I know you will." She looked at him with just a flicker of doubt. "Because you, my beloved Ealasaid, never do anything half-assed."

She nodded slowly, considering. "Hmm. I thought maybe you were going to say I don't go off half-cocked."

It took him a full ten seconds before what she said truly registered, and another five before he could gasp out, "What?" She grinned at him, and he burst into whoops of laughter. "_Ealasaid!_"

"Donald, I was _not_ going to pass that up!"

"Oh, dear God! You—"

"Yeah, yeah," she teased, "_'__you__'_—what?"

He kissed her, still chuckling. "You delightful little wench, you!"

"I beg your pardon, _I_ am a bawdy barmaid," she corrected loftily.

"That's what I've heard," he joked. "I see little evidence—haven't even seen your costume, yet."

She looked down at her naked body and then back up. "You really want me to put on a costume—_now_?"

"God, no!"

"Phew. You scared me for a second, there." She gave him a slow smile. "Lie back?" She was trying for confident and succeeded—pretty well. She sat next to his hips, trying to tuck her legs under comfortably.

He reached out and tipped her chin up. "You don't have to do this," he said softly. Much as he was looking forward to it—_God_, was he looking forward to it—he didn't want anything to mar their first night together, make her uneasy about any aspect of lovemaking in the future.

She stared into his eyes. "Oh, Donald… I know that. I know—that I don't _have_ to do _anything_. Not with you. If I were to say no—you'd respect that." Her gaze gentled. "I don't want to say no… to anything. Not with you." Perhaps emboldened by her words, she reached down and gently took him in a light grasp and feathered a soft kiss to the tip of his penis.

Oh, God. He hadn't died before, but he sure was going to now. This time he was going to die from pleasure.

She was a little timid, but had spoken the truth when she said she wanted to learn. She started off by just being curious—light touches and kisses, a soft brush of air over sensitive skin. He enjoyed being her learning canvas. She paid attention to his responses, both physical and verbal, repeating touches he enjoyed, changing those with a lesser reaction. (Of course, in his opinion _everything_ felt marvelous.) Long, slow licks up one side, then soft, nibbling kisses down the other. Light flicks to the ridged underside that made his knees weak and made him send a 'thank God I'm not standing up' into the cosmos. "God, that feels so damned good…"

When she had taken him in fairly deeply and was sliding him in and out of her mouth, he decided he'd been idle too long. Besides, he was getting way too aroused; maybe if he split off a little of his concentration, he might keep things going a bit longer. He slipped a hand down her back and over her rear, easily moving forward to caress the soft, moist flesh, thrusting shallowly.

She made a contented sound and the vibrations on his cock made him almost go crazy. "Ealasaid, that's incredible," he gasped.

She pulled off for a moment. "What was?"

"Oh, honey, when you did that—_mmmmm_," he hummed. "It felt _so_ _good_…"

She grinned. "Oh, really? Hmmm," she purred, teasing. She flicked her tongue over the ridge on the underside again and he let out a low groan. She continued to kiss and lick her way around and around to the top, then swooped down quickly. She made a low, throaty purr and she slid him in and out very slowly, giving an extra little suck at the head with each pass.

Okay, the person she had talked to was a goddamned genius. He was going to be indebted forever. The _thrummm_ against his erection was driving him right to the edge in record time. He reached out and stroked her hair, inadvertently thrusting into her mouth. She jerked slightly in surprise. He took her hand, which had been lightly holding and stroking him, and firmly wrapped it around the base of his penis. "That way when I push up, I won't go in too far." He was panting. "Oh… oh, God, Ealasaid, I'm going to come—I'm going to come, oh, _God_…" he groaned. He didn't know how far she planned to take this.

Pretty far. Her other hand slid below him, gently cradling his testicles. He thrust up, a corner of his mind relieved when her hand kept him from gagging her by accident. She tried to meet his rhythm and faltered, finally just allowing him to plunge in and out for several strokes.

It was the most beautiful orgasm he'd ever had. She held him as he exploded in her mouth, not flinching or recoiling one iota. Oh, so sweet… it felt like it went on for years. (He wished it would.) Finally expended, he fell back against the mattress. She gave him last little licks and kisses, gently setting aside the now soft member and moving up to wrap herself around him, snuggling her head on his chest. "Oh, my God," he finally managed. "That was fantastic. I never imagined you…" He gave up trying to articulate.

Elizabeth traced patterns on his chest, trailing her finger through the hair. "I think there are things I still need to learn," she mused. She pulled back and plunked an elbow on the bed, propping up her head. "You want to teach me?" Her eyes sparkled.

He grinned. "Just saying 'yes' sounds so tame."

"But acceptable." She grinned in response. She leaned over to kiss him. "_I_ like how _you_ taste," she teased softly, harking him back to the first time they'd pushed the limits.

Donald actually enjoyed sharing kisses after mutual pleasures, found it arousing as hell. Even still, he was still surprised to feel his penis stirring; he had no doubts (well, very few, anyway) they'd be making love several times during the night, he just hadn't figured on quite this soon—especially after weeks of nighttime frustration.

It surprised Elizabeth as well. She reached down and gave him a gentle stroke. "Nice."

Very. "If you keep doing that… we'll be 'celebrating our wedding night' in a few minutes."

She drew a shaky breath. "Oh… _yes_." She kissed him, hard, as she continued to slide her hand along the stiffening length. "I want you so much," she sighed.

He lightly ran his fingers over her face. "Not going to think of England?"

"I'm… not sure what you mean by that."

"Well…" His hand moved down, the backs of his fingers brushing over her breasts. "Back in the not-so-good-old-days… when a young lady married, her mother sat her down and gave her… _The_ _Talk_," he said dramatically. He trailed his fingers down her side, across her stomach. "Essentially, sex was a gruesome duty she had to put up with, and the only way to ensure a future generation for the country—that she should lie back, think of England and do her solemn duty."

Elizabeth snorted with laughter. "Oh, dear God."

"Yes. So…" he gave her a teasing look. "I hope you don't see me as your 'wifely duty.'"

In answer she pulled him to her for a deep kiss, rolling back and pulling him on top of her. "Not a chance," she breathed.

"My… _beloved_ wife…" His hand moved down, slipping between her parted legs. She wasn't lying. The feel of her wetness made him leap in her hand. He slipped between her legs, gently urging them to part—which she gladly did. He touched the lightest kisses over her face, ending with a firm touch to her lips. He slowly rocked his hips, letting his erection brush across her soft skin.

She groaned against his mouth, her hips automatically moving up toward him in response. He continued to rub against her setting an easy, gentle rhythm, then shifted slightly, letting the head of his cock bump lightly against her opening. She gasped, drawing in his air, but there was no fear, no uncertainty. It was pure arousal. He drew her tongue into his mouth, slowly sucking in the same rhythm as his hips. He pushed forward, letting just the flared head press into her body. She held onto him tightly, her kisses hot and panting, then pushed toward him. He entered further, listening for any sound of pain or discomfort. Far from it—her soft moans were entirely from pleasure.

He continued to thrust slowly, each time a little more deeply, until he was inside her fully with each stroke. He searched her face, but all he saw was a sweet smile as she sighed, "ohhh" each time he filled her. "Lift your feet behind me, behind my back," he encouraged.

She followed his suggestion, and his next push into her body made her head snap back with a sharp cry. "God, Donald, that's—oh!" she gasped at he thrust again. She clutched at him, trying to meet the tempo he set and sometimes succeeding. "Don't stop," she begged. "God, oh, God, please don't stop!" She kissed him, wild, almost frenzied as their hips met in faster and faster thrusts.

With a shuddering gasp he plunged in one last time, slow, hot spurts pouring from him. He reached down between them, his fingers sure as they rubbed until she came with a cry, her muscles clenching, milking him, causing him to thrust into her involuntarily. Still shaking, he rubbed his cheek against hers, softly kissing her ear. He didn't want to leave the sweet warmth of her body—and from the way she held on to him, she didn't want him to leave, either.

When he moved to shift his weight from her, she cried softly, "No…"

"I'm too heavy to lie on top of you, my love."

"You're not," she protested. She kissed him slowly, repeatedly. "I… I want you to stay inside me," she finally managed.

With careful maneuvering he managed to turn them both over so that she lay on top of him but they were still so intimately joined.

"Thank you." She rubbed her cheek against his chest. "I guess it sounds silly, wanting us—"

"Not silly." He stroked her hair. "I love how it feels, the two of us together…" She made a contented noise and wriggled a bit, her muscles tightening slightly around him. He gave a tiny gasp.

"Oh, Donald—did—did I hurt you?"

"No—oh, no, quite the contrary. It feels great. Beyond great."

"Oh…" She sounded like she was trying to figure out exactly what had happened. After a moment there was another lovely rippling massage and he sighed. "Like… that?"

"Oh, God, yes—just like that." He closed his eyes, relaxing against the mattress. She worked at caressing him, slow rolling movements that were beyond words. Occasionally she shifted around, her breasts rubbing against his chest, another marvelous sensation. "God," her murmured. "Do you have any idea how bloody wonderful it feels to have you make love to me?"

She kissed him, her breath soft on his lips. "Oh, Donald, I want to make love to you every night."

"With me, love, _with_ me."

"Mmh. That, too."

He was starting to regret flinging the bedclothes so far away; the sweat was evaporating, cooling on his body. But he had a wonderful, warm, wriggling blanket that was just fine. He lightly combed through her hair, nestling her head against his chest, his other hand randomly rubbing her back, her arm… They relaxed for some time, lazily cuddling and kissing, occasional touches to remind each other of what they had shared—Donald let out a satisfied sigh as she continued to use her body to caress him. What they had shared, what they would share again… and again. And if she continued to gently squeeze him like that, it would be sooner rather than later. He slid his hand down, lightly grazing over her bracelet and took her hand in his. He drew her hand up and lightly kissed the back. A very soft chuckle was her answer. "What's so funny?" he asked with a smile.

"Well… I was just thinking how courtly that gesture was… and considering how extremely naked we both are…" She wriggled against him for emphasis.

"Just proving that chivalry is not dead."

"Donald…" She looked embarrassed.

He reached down and tucked a hank of hair behind her ear. "Mmh?"

"Um… I'm… um…" She sighed. "I am really, really sweaty."

He grinned. "That's going to happen a _lot_, my love."

"Well, yeah, but…"

"You want to pop into the shower for a bit?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Is it rude of me to say yes?"

He laughed roundly. "Honey, that's far from rude. It's _real_."

She let out a sigh. "Well, I just didn't know if there were—well, rules…"

He couldn't help snickering. "Uh, no, no rules. Nothing written down that I know of."

"Now you're being mean!"

"Well… will I make it up if I offer to…" He traced his fingertip from her forehead down the bridge of her nose to the tip of her chin. "Scrub your back?" he whispered, running his tongue over his teeth in a most naughty manner.

She played it over in her mind, grinning slowly. "Hmm. That could be… interesting."

He waved a hand toward the bathroom. "After you."

Man, it was nice to not be taking a _cold_ shower. At first they were lost in giggles as they tried to move two bodies around a space that wasn't quite large enough (plus those awkward bits the plumber had installed), but they finally found the right rhythm. "You, first," Elizabeth insisted. Her hands slick with soap she ran them over his back, half washing half massaging… and all arousing. "Oooh… you need a good massage," she murmured, digging into his taut shoulders.

"Volunteering?"

"Yep—after you dry off."

He grabbed the soap and lathered up his hands. "Your turn," he said, twirling a finger. She obediently turned around and he slowly ran his hands up and down her back, lightly rubbing over her shoulders and arms.

"Mmmh… this was a nice idea. I could get used to this."

He stepped closer, slipping his arms about her waist. "So could I." He nuzzled her neck, water pelting his back. His hands, still slippery with soap, slipped up to cup her breasts. "Mmm…" He lightly nipped her earlobe as he gently kneaded the warm weight in his hands.

"Ohhh…" She was trembling beneath his touch. Almost unconsciously she rubbed against him, her lovely round cheeks caressing his rising erection.

"Lean against the wall," he said, shocked to hear the panting in his voice. Damn, she could get him so hot so fast…! It took a little maneuvering but at last he entered her, sweet, slow strokes that made her sigh heavily each time. Kissing was awkward, at best, but made up for in his opinion by the way his hands could flutter up and down her body—caressing the soft folds in front of where he had her so wonderfully pinned, firmly rubbing her belly as he filled her then sliding up to grasp and gently squeeze her swaying breasts. Her hands slid down the wall and she pushed back against him, making a whimpering moan that grew with each thrust. It was as wonderful as their first time making love, but almost exotic in its flavor. She was responding so quickly, so strongly; he'd never raced ahead so fast before.

"Oh… _oh_!" she gasped. "Donald! Oh—_Donald_!" She was literally shaking. He held tightly to her hips for balance; in another second he expected her fingers to claw through the tiles. "Oh—_ohhh_—oh, _God!_" Her scream echoed in the bathroom. Her muscles clenched around him spasmodically; she was trembling, hard. He quickened his pace and shortly met his own climax, a slow, hot explosion into her body.

She was still leaning heavily against the wall, legs shaking and breathing still ragged. My God… he had _never_ had a woman come like that before. What the hell had they done?

And could they figure out how to do it again?

After several long minutes, the water softly rolling down his back, she finally sucked in a deep breath and sighed. "Wow."

He couldn't help but grin. "Yeah… that puts it pretty well," he laughed.

She turned around cautiously and stepped into his embrace. Arms about his waist, she hung on tightly, leaning heavily against him. "Jesus. My knees are still weak."

"Mmh. I know what you mean." There were no words in his vocabulary to describe the feel of her orgasm overwhelming his body. It was beautiful, it was frightening, it was incredible—

It was _magic_.

"There's just one problem."

He tipped her chin up. "What's wrong, my love?"

She grinned. "I'm sweaty again."

* * *

><p>14<p> 


	15. Showtime!

**Chapter Fifteen: Showtime!**

_**Showtime:** The time  
>at which an entertainment,<br>such as the showing  
>of a movie, is scheduled to start.<br>Also an exclamation meaning,  
>"it's time to start."<br>(Said referring to beginning  
>anything exciting or challenging,<br>e.g. "Are you ready for action?"  
>"Okay, it's showtime!")<em>

* * *

><p>June 13, 1969<p>

Donald sighed. "We should get up," he said reluctantly.

"Don't wanna." From his vantage point he could see her lower lip protrude. She nestled more firmly against his chest.

"Well, if we ever have children, now I know what they'll sound like at four," he teased back.

"Another hour?"

"Ealasaid—"

"_Half_ hour?"

He almost groaned aloud. Truly wonderful things could happen in the space of a half hour. (Truly wonderful things could happen in the space of five minutes, they had discovered—to their mutual shock (and delight).) "No," he said firmly. She moved up and began to nibble his throat. "No." This one wasn't so firm. She lightly sucked on his earlobe, her tongue tickling where the base curved to his jaw. "_No_…" This one was more of a moan. By the time she progressed to his mouth, the 'no' was decidedly a 'yes.'

/ / /

"It's _ten __o__'__clock_. Breakfast, if nothing else."

"We have two hours…"

"Not necessarily. Tish said they'd be here by noon at the _latest_. It doesn't take that long to put in a water pump."

She nodded, face downcast.

He tipped her chin up. "You know… they did express a lot of interest in the Shakespeare festival… And it runs far into the night."

She started to smile. "One can hope."

"Now. Breakfast."

She scratched her forehead. "I didn't look in the fridge, I don't know what I have to work with—"

"You have nothing to work with. Remember your sister's orders? No cooking."

She rolled her eyes. "Ja, commandant."

He gave her a stern look. "Behave, or I'll put you in the stockade."

She smiled. "Ooh. Sounds… naughty."

"Ealasaid!"

Giggling, she bounded off the bed and headed for the shower. Shaking his head, he pulled the bedding into a semblance of order and scrambled about for his clothing. Elizabeth's clothes could be strewn about the room, but it would be disastrous for one of his stray socks to turn up bundled with her bra.

He knocked on the bathroom door and stuck his head in. "What would you like me to order for breakfast?"

"Hmm…" She was vigorously washing her hair. "Scrambled eggs. Fresh fruit. Hot tea, lots of lemon and honey. Lots and lots of lemon, like, half a dozen. Lemons, not slices. Wheat toast, dry, no butter. Orange juice, lots of orange juice."

"Anything else?"

She peered around the shower curtain. "Not from their menu, my dearest husband." She gave him a wicked look that made him want to join her in the shower.

"Half hour?"

"Yeah, I'll be done by then."

He called down their breakfast order and hurried to his own room for a quick shower. Dressing quickly, he rumpled the bedding and tossed his dirty clothes in a corner of the closet. Damn… A part of him felt guilty for the pretense—a very small part. For God's sake, they were engaged. They were set to be married in two years. This wasn't some teenage romance where it would last a week and then they'd have the awkwardness of tripping over each other in Geometry. They shouldn't have to resort to deception and deflection.

He caught a flash of Elizabeth walking through her own room, hair turbaned in a towel, a second towel wrapped around her body… that sweet, lithe, loving body. She may have been a virgin—he _knew_ she had been a virgin—but that was the most incredible lovemaking he'd experienced in his life. Natural talent, excellent research and resources—he didn't care. He just knew that he was going to share her bed for the rest of his life and if that didn't make him the luckiest man on the planet, nothing would.

A knock on the sitting room door broke his reverie. He hurried to her bedroom door and shut it, then opened the hallway door. A busboy wheeled in a laden cart. "On the coffee table is fine." He added an appropriate tip and scrawled his name on the ticket. "Thank you." He glanced at the fare; ugh—teabag tea, something called Lipton. (He had no idea what flavor a 'lipton' was and really didn't care to find out.) He filled the kettle with water and put it on to boil, glad he'd packed a few comfort items of his own.

"It really kills me to pay room service price for something I can make for a third of the cost," she said, running a brush through her wet hair as she entered the room.

_More __like __one-fifth._ He refrained from comment.

"But… if Daddy wants us to order room service, we will. It just bothers me, truly it does."

"Ah." He picked up a glass of orange juice and carried it over to her. "I've found myself a thrifty wife."

"You betcha. Thanks." She took a large swallow. "Okay… gotta admit, that's good." She headed for the table as he hurried to catch the weakly whistling kettle. "Well… my theory is… if I'm a good, thrifty wife and save you oodles of money left and right…" She cast him a sideways glance. "Maybe we could go to Hawaii some day?"

He'd never thought about going to the Hawaiian Islands—but it sounded like a nice idea. (Oh, hell—if she had suggested camping in the Sahara in the middle of summer it would sound like a nice idea.) "Oodles… yes, I think we could do it with oodles," he teased. He poured the water over the teaball.

"Or… it could make a nice honeymoon…"

"Hmm." He rubbed his cheek reflectively. "Actually… I was thinking of Scotland."

"Scotland would be wonderful," she said quickly.

"Well—my theory is that you have family and friends who would want to be at the wedding… and so do I. It would really be unfair to be married in either country and force half the assemblage to try to make intercontinental travel or have to choose to miss the ceremony. But if we were to be married here, with your friends and family in attendance… then honeymoon in Scotland, we could have a second ceremony, with my friends and family." He shrugged. "I'm sure my parents could fly in to the States… but I know it would be beyond my grandmother's ability. She doesn't even care for taking the train."

"Oh, Donald." She gulped. "That is the sweetest, most thoughtful—" She leaped up from her seat and almost tackled him in the kitchen.

"Besides…" He grinned down at her. "If we have two ceremonies, then we're _really_ married."

"Good 'n' married," she laughed. She noticed he was brewing his own tea. "Milk?"

He sighed in pleasure. She was already looking after him in the little ways that made life easier. Part of him thought it couldn't possibly get better; the other part knew that it would. "Yes." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." She pulled the teaball from the mug. "Looks about right." She waved him off. "Sit, sit, sit!"

Laughing, he took a seat at the couch while she dosed his tea with milk and carried in the mug. "You're going to spoil me."

"Good." She set the mug on the table and leaned over to kiss him. "I _want_ to spoil you."

She took a chair at right angle to him and started in on her breakfast. After a moment, it was plain she was eyeing the bacon on his plate. "Would you like some?"

She sighed. "I shouldn't. I'm singing, I try to avoid greasy things…" She bit her lip.

"You have an ice bucket of what looks like a dozen lemons cut in wedges. I think that would cut any grease you might encounter."

"Well…"

He plunked half the bacon onto her plate. "Couples share," he said firmly.

"Oh, God, it looks too good to pass up."

He grinned. "Enjoy."

/ / /

They were just finishing the last of their meal when there was a soft knock at the door. "Probably room service," he said.

Elizabeth frowned. "Usually you just leave it outside the—"

He had already opened the door. "Tish!" She stayed in the hall, smiling. "Why so formal? Come on in."

"We were just finishing breakfast," Elizabeth called out. "You guys eat?"

"Yeah, everyone else is downstairs in the coffee shop." She walked in slowly, looking at her sister. "So. You guys have a good night last night?"

Donald couldn't see her face; her back was to him. But he could see Elizabeth's. A blush slowly mounted her cheeks, and her gaze dropped to her lap. Then she smiled, a very sweet, very private smile, and looked her sister square in the face. "Yes. We had a _wonderful_ evening, thank you."

Tish nodded. "Great. In that case…" She walked in the half-open door of the girls' room. Donald and Elizabeth exchanged confused looks.

_She__'__s __your __sister_, he tried to send telepathically. _What __gives?_

Elizabeth shrugged. (Apparently the message showed through on his face.)

Tish returned in a moment, dragging her bags and humming. She shoved them in a corner and then headed for the other bedroom.

"Tish—?"

She ignored her sister's call and Elizabeth turned a baffled look to Donald. A few minutes later, she returned with Gene's bags and pushed them into a different corner than where hers sat.

"Tish—Patricia—!"

She returned to the girls' room, this time returning with Madalena's bag. Still ignoring her sister, she marched it into the second bedroom again, returning in short order without the bag. She pointed to Donald. "You're a big boy, you can move your stuff on your own."

"P-pardon?" he stammered.

"Tish, what the—"

"Well, it's like this." She sauntered toward the couch. "Last night there was a meeting of the senior partners of the firm, shall we say? Well, the senior _relationships_, let's put it that way. It was pointed out to, ah, dissenting members of the committee—"

_Dennys. Has to be Dennys._

"That the two of you are in a committed relationship no lower on the totem pole than the other roommates of this party. And for any one of us to wag a finger and say, 'Tsk, tsk, look but no touch,' is more than a little hypocritical."

Elizabeth was almost apoplectic. "The four of you sat around discussing my sex life—!"

"Why not? You and I do."

_Answers **that** question._

"Besides, we didn't get into the nitty-gritty."

"Thank God for small favors," Elizabeth snapped. Donald seconded the thought.

"Hey. The feeling was, if you guys decided to wait—_two __years_," she said, "then fine. We just keep going how we were. But any fool could see where you guys were headed." She rolled her eyes. "Okay, any fool under forty," she muttered. "And if that was the case—well… We flipped a coin. Gene and I got the sitting room." She grinned affably. "No late night snacks after eleven, okay? Or someone might be embarrassed, and it won't be us."

Elizabeth's ire had abated. "Tish—are you sure?"

"It was presented very logically. Imagine three cards, on the front of each is marked 'engaged couple.' The names are on the back. All you can see is the front. Why should two cards get a pass and one doesn't?" She glanced at Donald. "Probably shouldn't say this to someone whose nickname is Ducky, but—sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander."

Donald laughed, then sobered abruptly. "I… can understand you seeing that equation. And Gene. And Maddie." He looked her in the eye. "But Dennys—"

"Don't worry. He's not going to put ground glass in your tea." Donald shuddered. "I'll switch mugs if you want. But I hate milk in my tea," she said patiently. "Denny… Denny grew up with the mantle of _You__'__re __The __Big __Brother_ on his shoulders. We had the feeling that nobody would ever be good enough for his little sisters. Ever. I had to sit him down, eyeball to eyeball, and convince him that yes, Gene and I loved each other and would make each other happy. He backed off. We joke that he didn't, but—he did. In reality, he did. So, last night…" She looked smug. "I did some damned eloquent talking on your behalf. And while he's still not thrilled—you are his littlest little sister, after all—he's coming around. He's okay with it."

_Someone, call the Archbishop. I just witnessed a miracle._

"But, can I make a suggestion?" They nodded in silent unison. "Don't go at it like rabbits when he's around."

Elizabeth dropped her forehead into her hand. "Tish!"

"Just sayin'…" She headed for the door and stopped. She pointed to Donald. "You. Move your stuff. You've got about fifteen minutes." She ducked out and shut the door behind her.

Elizabeth looked around the room slowly, her face puzzled. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Just… wondering where Rod Serling is hiding… that's all…"

/ / /

Since Maddie was already performing with Elizabeth under the name "The Bawdy Barmaids," Tish stepped in to take her place as harmony and backup for Annalee in case some sharp-eyed concertgoer put two and two together.

"Remember go up—" Elizbeth hummed a few notes.

"Gotcha. Let's just do the last two." Elizabeth plucked a few notes, then Tish started the verse in a sweet soprano:

"_Mommy, Mommy, come and see such things I've never seen  
>There's happy faces all around and now the ground is… green?"<em>

Elizabeth took over:

"_Come away, Melinda, come in and close the door  
>That's just the way it used to be—before they had the war."<em>

They continued to alternate:

_"__Mommy, __Mommy __come __and __see __and tell __me __if __you can  
>Why <em>_can't __it __be __the __way __it __was __before __the __war __began?__"_

_"Come away, Melinda, come in and close the door  
>The answer lies in yesterday—before they had the war."<em>

The two harmonized for a repeat of the last line, Tish's pure soprano and Elizabeth's rich contralto blending as only sisters can. "Okay?" Tish asked.

"Well, _I_ got shivers," Donald blurted out.

Tish smiled grimly. "Mission accomplished." She looked over the list in her hands. "_Sun __Is __Burning_?"

"After _Come __Away, __Melinda_, that's kind of redundant. Okay—P-P-and-M won't be here—they've got a gig that pays real frijoles—so you want to do _Where __Have __All __the __Flowers __Gone?_ You do great harmony on that."

"Okay, okay. _Jack __Haggerty?_"

"Den and Maddie and I are doing it."

"Oh! Oh! _After __the __Gold __Rush_—please?"

"Mmmh… okay. Come on." Elizabeth strapped something to the neck of the guitar she had earlier identified as a capo, something that increased the scale of the notes. She played a couple of introductory chords, then they started to sing:

"_Well, I dreamed I saw the knights in armor coming,  
>Saying something about a queen.<br>There were peasants singing and drummers drumming  
>And the archer split the tree—"<em>

"I call that good," Elizabeth pronounced. Donald was disappointed; he had wanted to hear more. But he brightened considerably, realizing he'd hear the whole show in about an hour.

The girls made some quick changes, but had a solid list within five minutes.

"None too soon," Dennys complained. He took his role as manager quite seriously. "We've got twenty minutes to get there before _I_ call us late. Let's move it."

Donald, the face that would not be associated with the music scene or the family, was the designated driver for Tish and Elizabeth; the others piled into Gene's car. Gene, with Maddie as navigator (being more familiar with the area), played lead car, Donald following as closely as he dared in fear of losing him in the growing line of vehicles.

They checked in with the guard at the Performers gate and were waved through; that eased the traffic congestion immensely. Donald pulled into a parking spot right next to Gene's car.

He held the door for Elizabeth—_Annalee_, he mentally corrected himself—and barely kept from shaking his head. She looked so different. Tish had ironed out the slight wave in her hair; it cascaded down her back like pale silk, two thin braids from the front pulled back and caught with a barrette to keep the waterfall of hair in place. Annalee's trademark enormous, smoked rose glasses covered her beautiful eyes, and the flowing pantsuit disguised the built-up boots that brought her well above Donald's almost 5'10". She had carefully chosen a blouse with gathered cuffs so that her bracelet was covered; she flat-out refused to take it off. When she had said it was never coming off, by God, she meant it.

To someone on the outside, the people running around backstage looked like the definition of chaos. But everyone seemed to know what was going on and who needed to be where and doing what, so Donald stayed as close to Elizabeth and her group as possible and out of the way of the thundering herd.

After consulting with the organizers, Dennys approached Elizabeth almost timidly. "Uh, Annalee… they're uh, running late."

You didn't have to see them to know her eyes had narrowed behind her glasses. "Running… how late?"

"Ah… they're just about to start, so… about three hours."

Her head dropped down. "Oh, God. Three more hours… in these goddamned boots."

Dennys looked sympathetic (probably just deliriously happy because she hadn't slain the messenger). "Listen. As soon as we're sure this is your last gig… I'll help you burn 'em. I promise."

"They're patent leather. They won't burn." Her head slowly moved back up and she had a wicked grin. "But… I can hack them into little, bitty pieces…"

"I'll loan you my good shears," Maddie promised.

"You're on."

"And I'll give you a nice, long foot massage tonight."

Elizabeth smiled at Donald. "You just really made it worth it."

"And not to be outdone… I just found seats for us all. We can hang out backstage and watch the show until you have to go on." Gene shrugged. "I, for one, would like to see the other acts."

"Oh, heck, yeah. Lead on!" Tish linked elbows with him and led the way.

By the time they circled around to the other side, the opening act had been announced. "Who is it?" Donald asked, the PA system having had a little problem with feedback.

"Dunno. Don't recognize him from this angle, didn't hear the name." Elizabeth followed his prod and placed her feet in his lap, his windbreaker casually draped over to cover her odd boots.

"I'd love to sit by you, but this way if your feet are up—"

She smiled at him. "And I appreciate it."

The young man on stage was enthusiastically strumming a guitar and singing along. Because of the acoustics the lyrics were occasionally lost (until someone adjusted the side speakers after the first verse), but Donald quickly caught on that he was singing about beer brewed in a cyclotron, a physics experiment of some sort. It was actually a funny song. Except for Elizabeth the others had heard the song before (as had some of the crowd) and joined in on the chorus:

"_Three-Oh-Seven Ale, me lads, Three-Oh-Seven Ale,  
>The finest drink that any bar has ever had for sale,<br>It'll lay your whole damn world to waste, it'll make you fit and hale,  
>There's nothing that you'll ever taste like Three-Oh-Seven Ale, me lads,<br>Three-Oh-Seven Ale!"_

Donald laughed and the next time the chorus came around was able to join in without messing up too many words. "He's great," he said at the end of the song.

His other songs—having to do with science and computers—were all just as funny and he left the stage to enthusiastic applause. The next up was a group with an interesting collection of instruments (some Donald recognized, but a couple were complete mysteries) and an equally interesting collection of musicians, young men and women all wearing matching t-shirts in black with a picture of the Milky Way on them. As one passed by, Donald caught the legend, **YOU ****ARE ****HERE** with an arrow pointing off toward the middle. He grinned, wondering if he could find the shirt for sale somewhere.

The lead singer was a young woman with masses of dark, wavy hair and large, thick glasses. Unlike Elizabeth's, these were plainly meant for her to see. She, too, played a twelve-string guitar. "I didn't realize those were so popular."

"Mmh?"

"She's got a twelve-string guitar. Like yours."

Elizabeth let out a deep sigh. "Yeah, but she makes Monster do things nobody else can make a guitar do."

"Monster?"

"That's the name of her guitar."

She was starting to play, fast plucking while the six-string behind her strummed in accompaniment.

"_When we pulled into Argo port in need of R-and-R,  
><em>_The crew set out investigating every joint and bar,  
><em>_We had high expectations of their hospitality,  
><em>_But found too late it wasn't geared for spacers such as we!"_

The others joined in with a variety of instruments and three or four part-harmony on the chorus.

"_So we're banned from Argo everyone,  
><em>_Banned from Argo just for havin' a little fun,  
><em>_We spent a jolly shore leave there, just three days or four—  
><em>_But Argo doesn't want us anymore."_

As he listened to the lyrics, the descriptions started to sound familiar. "Is that…?"

Elizabeth nodded, grinning. "Yep. She does a lot of _Star __Trek_ songs. Most of 'em funny as hell, but some serious stuff, too."

This one was definitely not serious. She had the crew of the Enterprise drinking, womanizing, manizing (if there was such a word) and other-izing across the planet and leaving it in shambles… though she was very careful to not to mention any character by name. Smart.

"If they keep putting out people like this, I'm not going to make it through the afternoon," he said, wiping tears from his eyes as they continued with a song about using beer (hopefully not that 307 ale!) to propel a damaged spaceship to safety.

Their next song about a union organizer demanding high hazard pay for high hazard duty had a middle-aged gentleman with a banjo in hand stop and listen through to the end of the song. At the end he turned to his companion, a younger man with long, dark hair and sort of puppy-dog eyes and said, "Wobblies in space. I can get behind that." He gave a thumbs-up to the lead singer who happened to glance his way at the right moment. He and his friend continued toward the far backstage area.

"Holy shit," Dennys breathed. "I just saw God."

The others were equally in awe. "What did I miss?" Donald asked.

Elizabeth swallowed. "Remember I said they were having some big guns play tonight and Saturday night? You just saw the _biggest_ gun in folk music. That… was Pete Seeger."

He twisted around in his chair but Seeger and his friend were already gone. "Damn! He doesn't look like his pictures."

"I heard someone backstage say he was supposed to be on at six, they're three hours behind... Depending on how long it takes them to get caught up—if they get caught up…oh, hell, these boots will be welded to my feet by then."

"I'll cut them off."

"Oh, oh—shh! I love this song."

The mood on the stage had changed from frolic and fun to reflective. The backup musicians were plucking strings gently to blend with the main guitar, and a flute was only an echo.

"…_.time's cold wind, wailing down the pass  
><em>_Reminds us that all flesh is grass,  
><em>_And history's lamps blow out..."_

Donald's mouth was ajar. They were singing a song in praise of, of all things, the Apollo space program… and it was the most hauntingly beautiful thing he had ever heard. When it ended he had to stop himself from leaping up and shouting, "No! Don't stop!"

"They've got an album coming out next year," Elizabeth said over the wild applause. "Gene is friends with a guy who's working with them in Chicago. Strictly private label stuff, but there are plenty of people out there who will buy it."

"Including me."

They sat and listened to a number of performers—soloists, duets, groups—some better than others, but all good. Finally it was time for Elizabeth's alter ego to take the stage.

In his guise of manager _cum_ techie, Dennys checked and arranged the microphones and adjusted the lights, cutting out any strong white lights that might 'hurt' Annalee's delicate eyes. (It also placed Elizabeth into a muted light that made it easier to disguise her looks.)

Her guitar resting on its strap peg, she stood in front of the microphone, Tish (in flats and now dwarfed by her sister) by her side. She had plucked a note right before they went onstage and now started what he recognized as an old Celtic song.

"_May it be an evening star  
>Shines down upon you<br>May it be when darkness falls  
>Your heart will be true<br>You walk a lonely road  
>Oh, how far you are from home."<em>

_Far __from __home__… __but __with __you __by __my __side, __home __will __be __wherever __we __are. _He smiled, listening to her voice blend with Tish's in perfect a cappella harmony. It was sad, in a way, that this part of her life was closing. She had a beautiful voice and the audience connected with her—but he'd seen how the public took and took from singers, from actors, until there was no more to give. No privacy, no personal life—no thank you. He didn't need his wife to be a famous singer, especially if she didn't want to do it any more. But it would be wonderful hearing that voice ring out during Christmas Eve services. He smiled; lullabies would be nice, too.

"Thank you… yes. Thank you very much." It threw him to hear Elizabeth's voice pitched so low. But it was another dodge to separate Elizabeth and Annalee. "Our next selection was gifted to us from a friend in England, a wonderfully talented singer—and songwriter—named Maddy Prior. Of this song she says—" She pulled out a card she had tucked beneath the strings and handed it to Tish, smiling apologetically and making a faint gesture to her covered eyes.

"Isabel of Buchan was rumored to be the mistress of Robert the Bruce. She was born a McDuff—the family that traditionally crowned the Kings of Scotland—and since she was the only member of the family available, she stole her husband's horses—" Tish had to wait for the wave of laughter to subside. "And rode to Scone to crown him. When she was later captured by the English she was imprisoned in a cage in Berwick Castle for four years."

There was a murmur through the crowd; nothing like a little education along with the entertainment. "We bring you… _Isabel_." Elizabeth slipped the strap over her shoulder. But instead of playing the guitar, she held one hand over the strings to still them while the fingers on her other hand tapped a slow rhythm on the pickguard. The thumps echoed hollowly, picked up by the angled microphone. After a moment, Elizabeth began to sing, her tempo slightly different from her finger drumming. Not an easy feat, harder than patting your head and rubbing your stomach.

"_I lie in this cage in full public gaze,  
>And I don't give a pin for all their scorn.<br>For I've crowned my lover king,  
>Ah, such glorious days I've seen.<br>Give me the chance I'd do it all again—  
><em>_Give me the chance I'd do it all again."_

Tish had carried a violin with her when they first went onstage, setting it aside on a vacant chair. She now tucked it under her chin and began to play an accompaniment, a sweet, plaintive lament melding with Elizabeth's soft guitar chords.

"_Robbie my love you've the heart of a dove,  
>Only Scotland could raise such a man.<br>On the wild mountainside,  
>I have lain down by your side.<br>In spite of the bitter wind and rain—  
><em>_In spite of bitter wind and freezing rain."_

He had listened to Elizabeth practice that morning, cursing roundly when her voice strained and sometimes cracked on the highest notes that were just at the edge of her range. But here she hit notes that were strong and true, ringing like a bell. He listened as Tish's soft playing became stronger and _Isabel_ grew in power in both the lyrics and in Elizabeth's vocalization.

"_The soft southern dogs have never scaled the heights  
>They cower in their comfort secure.<br>But he has dared it all,  
>And he's risked the fearsome fall.<br>Surely God will crown the brave and sure—  
><em>_Surely God will crown the brave and sure._

_At proud Bannockburn their cringing hearts did turn_  
><em>From his noble and daring campaign.<em>  
><em>I watched from a distant hill,<em>  
><em>And my heart flies with him still.<em>  
><em>Though my body may be caged and disdained—<em>  
><em>Though my body may be caged and disdained."<em>

As quickly as they changed, they returned to the gentle tone of before.

"_He's as bold as a ram, he's as gentle as a lamb,  
>He's a man that could never be denied.<br>He is generous and gay,  
>But he's changeable as day."<em>

Elizabeth turned slightly so that she was facing more toward Donald.

_"__And __for __just __one __hour __with __him __I'd __gladly __die__—  
><em>_And for just one hour with him—"_

She held the note for what seemed like an eternity, finally finishing, _"__I__'__d __gladly __die__…"_ Tish played the closing notes and bowed off, bringing her instrument down with a flourish.

"Wow," he mouthed to Elizabeth. She inclined her head only slightly, but it was enough for him to see.

They followed it up with an old standard—_Barbara __Allen_—then another traditional melody, _The __Water __is __Wide_, with Elizabeth playing the guitar and Tish providing harmony vocals. _Come __Away, __Melinda_ proved even more gently chilling than the bite he had been given that morning. It was a relief to switch to _Where __Have __All __the __Flowers __Gone?_—no less depressing, but a little uplifting in an odd way. The _Gold __Rush_ song turned out to be a strange, mystical tale of medieval fancy and futuristic fear.

"Even though we have so many more in the audience than we do on stage, I know that we have all came here to sing in our own way. I invite everyone, everywhere… to _Come __For __to __Sing_." Elizabeth rearranged the microphones slightly and began to strum enthusiastically. She sang with unashamed joy, Tish providing simple harmony and a brilliant grin of her own.

"_Some come to work while others do play  
><em>_Some come at evening to pass time away  
><em>_Some come to laugh, their voices do ring  
><em>_But as for me, I come for to sing!_

_Some come in winter to ward off the chill  
><em>_Some come in summer to drink up their fill  
><em>_Some come in autumn and others in spring  
><em>_But when I come, I come for to sing."_

A lot of the crowd knew the song well enough to stumble along; a dozen or more versions existed, so they had to wait for the verse to begin to start chiming in properly—but they were having fun.

Several verses later they finished with a long-held note on the final _"__sing__" _then Elizabeth leaned in to the microphone. "And I thank you for letting me do so today. Have a wonderful weekend!" She waved genially to the crowd and quickly made her way off stage.

"My feet are killing me," she moaned.

"Why not change clothes with Maddie? Then you could take those boots off," Donald suggested.

"And wear what? I'm not walking around barefoot."

"Your sandals are in the trunk. Remember, when you changed on the drive up? You tossed them in the wheel well and they never went upstairs."

"Actually, I've got my jeans from Wednesday in Gene's trunk—same story," Tish said. "Hitch in the belt, it'll pass."

"And they're selling t-shirts by the entrance, so Maddie doesn't even have to give up her Beach Boys shirt," Dennys added.

"And nobody's going to notice when Annalee walks into the porta-potty and I come out?"

"Well… go back to the car, throw the boots and your vest in the trunk. Ditch the glasses and put on Don's windbreaker. It's enough of a change that people won't notice—put the windbreaker on over your hair, too. Grab Tish's jeans and your sandals, and go over to where they're putting on the Shakespeare fest. You remember drama class, everyone is changing like crazy, nobody pays attention to the bodies—you can finish changing and come back here and nobody will ever notice. Probably." Dennys shrugged. "I'll even go get you the t-shirt and meet you there."

"Could work," she said slowly. "If nobody's looking when we're at the car…"

Dennys snorted. "Trust me. Half the people around here are so loaded even if you changed right in front of them and had someone announcing that _you __know __who_ is now _you __know __who_ they'd probably chalk it up to some bad weed or a really weird acid trip."

She shifted her weight and winced. "I'm sold. Right now, I don't care, I just want to get out of these things."

Donald carried the precious guitar, Tish her violin and Gene the small equipment case. Elizabeth, a floppy hat jammed on her head, stayed in the middle of the group and walked as quickly as possible, face ducked down. "I never realized you played the violin."

Tish nodded. "I actually wanted to learn to play the cello, but Mom thought it wasn't ladylike." She shrugged. "But… I ended up liking the violin. I saw where someone used an electric violin, ohhhhhh, I wanna try that one."

"Electric violin? Like an electric guitar?"

"Right. But I haven't tracked one down for sale. Maybe later… You play?"

He shrugged. "Obligatory piano lessons, but I was never very motivated. Mother finally realized it was a waste of money. A chum at Eton was quite the guitarist, taught me a few chords. I actually enjoyed that, but I didn't have the time to devote to it."

"Well, now that you're through med school—"

He laughed. "Next comes residency, then—"

She waved her hands. "I forgot." She cocked her head. "You really gonna get the time to get married in two years?"

"You'd better believe it," he said earnestly.

Tish laughed. "You sounded so American!"

They had arrived at the cars. "I'm working on it." He popped the trunk lid, stashing Elizabeth's guitar and pulling out the sandals. "Are we safe?"

Elizabeth looked around. "All clear, Lefty."

He gave her a puzzled look. "I'm right-handed."

She sat on the bumper to unlace her boots. "What, you never saw an old prison movie?"

"Ah." He traded her a sandal for a boot, flinching at her reddened foot. "Why do you wear these if they don't fit?"

"They did, but tightened up after the first couple of months. Getting them made was a pain—no pun intended—so I just lived with it. What, five, six, seven times a year? Not that bad."

"Maybe your feet just got fat," Tish teased, pulling her jeans from the trunk of Gene's car and tossing them over.

"Ha, ha, ha. Listen to me laugh." Elizabeth tipped her head. "Oops. Wrong. I wasn't." She took off her colorful fringed vest and tossed it on top of her boots, folded up her glasses and tucked them in the crown of her hat then set the hat on the vest.

"Wait, wait—" Tish grasped Elizabeth's shoulders and turned her at an angle. She divided her hair into three chunks and quickly plaited it, hiding the thin braids from earlier and snapping the barrette at the bottom. "There ya go."

"And…" Donald stripped off his windbreaker with the USC logo on the back.

"Thanks." Elizabeth slipped it on and zipped up the front. "Almost fits," she grinned.

"Okay, where's the festival?" he asked. Three hands pointed to the northeast (Maddie having accompanied Dennys to the souvenir stand). "Onward and upward."

Dennys was waiting for them, pacing back and forth near the large tent with the sign "Womans Dresing Room" staked in front of it. "Nobody will notice. They've had a hundred people in and out in five minutes."

Tish's fingers were actually twitching. "Oh, God, my kingdom for a red pencil," she snarled, staring at the hand-lettered sign.

"They're actors, not writers," Maddie said, poking her head out. "Hustle the bustle, babe." She handed Elizabeth a mass of bright fabric.

"What are you doing inside?" Donald asked.

She shrugged. "Fixing costume problems," she said with a laugh.

"Makes a good cover, if nothing else," Dennys said with a slight smile.

In a few minutes Elizabeth reappeared looking quite different. Now she sported Tish's faded and patched jeans, cinched at the waist and rolled at the hem, a tie-dyed shirt in shades of blue, yellow and green with the festival logo silk screened on the back, and a wild headband he recognized as Madalena's. "You like?"

Donald grinned. "You look great."

She formally handed him his windbreaker. "Thanks for the loan. Okay—everybody: still have your pass?"

Donald waved the laminated card that was strung around his neck, as did most of the others. Tish dug hers out of her pocket, and Maddie brought hers out from inside her shirt. "Okay, we're flyin'," Dennys said. "Me, I'm getting' back to backstage. I am not missing Seeger. Jesus, I didn't know he was going to be here."

"I think it was a last-minute surprise," Elizabeth said as they headed back toward the concert venue. "He wasn't on the list I got with our passes."

"Not complaining," he said.

As they got closer, the crowd increased, splitting the group apart. Gene and Tish were still close to them, but he could barely see Maddie's lime green caftan top in the press of people. He was pretty sure the longhaired gent next to her was Dennys; he certainly wasn't the only one with long hair (Donald was actually in the minority with his shorter hair, despite his mother thinking it was disreputably long), but he was one of the few with auburn locks that glowed red in the sun. Yeah, that was Den.

There was a small group of young men on stage—Donald didn't recognize them—singing an antiwar song that resonated with the audience. Those who weren't singing along were cheering enthusiastically, many yelling, 'End the war!' 'Out of 'Nam!' and other phrases. As they passed a small group of young men passing around lit cigarettes that were clearly not Lucky Strikes, one of them yelled out, "They're all baby killers!"

Donald was the first to admit he didn't feel the escalation in Viet Nam was a good thing. But there was a big difference between being against the war and against the men ordered to fight. For a split second he warred with himself—the man deserved a severe dressing-down, but he _was_ a guest in this country—

No need. Tish had things in hand.

Including the front of the young man's shirt, twisted in her fist as she pushed him against a light pole sunk into the grass.

"You listen, asshole, and you listen good." Her voice was low and intense, more frightening than if she were screaming at full volume. "My _brother_ served in Viet Nam. Yeah. You're calling _my_ _brother_ a baby killer. Feel pretty tough about that, hunh? For your information, my brother not only didn't kill any babies, his unit saved a room full of kids whose school was being shelled from the North. Thirty kids and a couple of girls hardly any older, trying to teach these kids two plus two and fucking _English_—yeah, they were a big threat to Ho Chi Minh."

Donald let out a shaky breath. He knew Dennys had come home with 'problems' from his service. In the middle of a war, his life at risk every day, he had put his life on the line to save another—not just a comrade-in-arms, an adult, but a couple of dozen children who were pawns in a horrific game of chess.

Suddenly he felt rather small.

"Three guys were _hurt_ rescuing those kids. Including my brother—but not where you can see it. When the government told him to go over, _he __did __it_. He thought he might be able to bring things to an end faster that way. Because of the shit that happened to him over there, he came home damaged. Some of his friends came home without arms—" She smacked her captive's shoulder. "Legs—" She slapped his thigh. "Lots of parts got left behind, including _minds_, asshole. And you know what the VA tells Viet Nam vets?" She gave him a disgusted look. "Go fuck yourself. But frankly—it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter if he single-handedly saved a church fulla nuns or just slogged through a goddamned rice paddy. He was _there_. He did his _job_. He came _home_. So if you want to be pissed at someone, be pissed at the government. The government that sends them over then kisses them off when they come home. Supporting men like my brother isn't the same as supporting the war." Donald shivered slightly; it was like she had read his mind.

She released the crumpled shirt. "Next time you think about yelling 'baby killer' at someone—think about _my_ _brother_ and his patrol saving those kids and almost losing their lives… okay?" Her voice was still dangerous, and the glare from her eyes could have burned through stainless steel.

Nobody moved or even breathed for a long moment; then he managed a jerky nod. "Yeah. Uh—yeah." Tish nodded sharply and turned to leave. "Hey—" She stopped and turned around. To Donald's surprise, the young man hesitantly held out a hand. "Um… tell your brother…" He looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

Tish managed a small smile. "I will." She accepted the handshake. "Hey… Spread the word?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."

Donald stared as Tish twined her hand with Gene's and disappeared into the crowd. He jumped slightly as a gentle hand slipped around his waist. He looked down at Elizabeth, still slightly shocked. "I—I—" He shook his head slowly.

She lifted a shoulder very slightly. "Yeah." She hugged him. "I know." After a moment, she laughed faintly. "If you ever need someone at your back… Tish is the one to have."

He smiled. "I'll remember that."

/ / /

"Holy crap, I wish I had more film." Elizabeth scooted over toward the side curtain.

"I do," Maddie said smugly. Elizabeth was using her little Instamatic; Maddie had a 35 millimeter camera with telephoto lenses that made the whole rig look like a military weapon of frightening proportions. "And I can get close enough to see the lettering on Seeger's banjo." She fired off several shots in a row.

"No, no… it's great to be here. Love California. Love it. Still got a little work to be done in the fields, but…" The audience laughed with him as he tweaked the tuning on his banjo. "Now… you might-a noticed this kid hangin' around today." Seeger tipped his head toward the long-haired young man sitting on the stool next to him. He waved affably at the audience and smiled. "Welllll… y'see, his Daddy and I worked together a while ago, and I always told him I'd try to get him a job somewhere, so… we'll see if this works out."

The young man took no offense at the comments; instead, he threw his head back and laughed roundly. "Wahl, thanks, Pete, ah 'preciate that."

"He looks familiar, I just can't place him," Dennys muttered.

Seeger had finished tuning his banjo and his friend the guitar he held. "Here's one you just might have heard of, a favorite of mine… _How __Can __I __Keep __From __Singing_?"

"Oh, yeah," Elizabeth sighed.

The instruments blended well; the voices were a little rough, but worked together in an endearing way.

"_My life flows on in endless song  
><em>_Above earth's lamentation  
><em>_I hear the real though far off hymn  
><em>_That hails a new creation  
><em>_Through all the tumult and the strife  
><em>_I hear that music ringing  
><em>_It sounds an echo in my soul—  
><em>_How can I keep from singing?"_

Donald couldn't help but smile as they sang. It wasn't just an anti-war song; it was anti-hatred, anti-oppression. It was uplifting for any era. It resonated deep in the soul.

"_In prison cell and dungeon vile  
><em>_Our thoughts to them are winging  
><em>_When friends by shame are undefiled  
><em>_How can I keep from singing?"_

They finished to a roar of approval. They continued plucking and strumming; "Annnnnnd… just for a change of pace already…" Seeger laughed.

"_I stood on the Atlantic Ocean  
><em>_The wide Pacific shore  
><em>_To the queen of the flowing mountains  
><em>_To the southbell by the door—"_

"This is killing me," Dennys groaned through gritted teeth. "I know his voice, I know his face, who the hell _is_ he?"

"I know," Elizabeth said, setting her camera aside to clap along with the rollicking rendition of _Wabash_ _Cannonball_. "Hope he tells us at some point."

They went through an interesting collection of folk songs, including a round of _If __I __Had __a __Hammer_ that had nearly everyone in the audience joining in.

"Nothin' like a little par-ti-ci-pa-tion," Seeger's friend laughed. "God love ya, we kin use all the help we kin get." The audience roared with laughter.

"Now… I need t' rest for a bit, I'm going to let my friend here entertain you for… a _few_ minutes…" Seeger slipped his banjo behind him so that it rested on his back and leaned forward on his stool, hands clasped and hanging between his knees. He looked at his fellow performer expectantly.

"A little pressure, Pete?"

"Not at all, son, not at all."

Shaking his head, the young man began to pluck at his guitar. Donald could see a number of people start to laugh in the audience as they caught the tune.

"No. Oh, _no_…" Dennys began to laugh as well. "I'm an _idiot_. A blind idiot."

"_You __can __get __anything __you __want_—"

"Arlo!" Dennys cried just as the crowd overrode the next couple of lines. He caught Donald's baffled look. "Listen—just… listen!"

Well—it wasn't exactly a song. After a chorus of telling people they could get anything they want at Alice's Restaurant, just walk on in, it's near the railroad tracks and so forth, the young man—Arlo—launched into what could be loosely called a 'talking blues' song. He plucked a regular tune in the background while he told the sad (and sometimes confusing) tale of a Thanksgiving dinner gone wrong. First they try to do a good deed by taking the trash to the town dump, then they're arrested for littering—THEN, because of the littering charge, he may not be 'moral enough' to serve in Viet Nam, but all you need to do is protest, and to protest, all you need to do is—

"Sing it the next time it comes around… With feeling…"

"That… is the craziest thing I've ever heard," Donald said, shaking his head.

"Yeah." Even though it was a definite slam at those who had served in Viet Nam, Dennys was grinning ear to ear. He plainly understood the concept of satire. "Isn't it?"

The audience had joined in the chorus and now Arlo looked out at them sadly. "Oh, that was _pathetic_." They laughed and applauded. "No, ah'm not kiddin'. Ah've been up her for… what, eight _days_, singin' and playin'…" Laughter rippled through the crowd. "And all ah ask… _all_ ah _ask_… is a little help on one little chorus an' what happens?" He blew a raspberry. "Nothin'! Now… chorus is comin' 'round again, let's try it one more time." He continued to play. "It's comin' 'round, ah swear it is." The crowd laughed. "No, no, here it comes, here it comes…"

"_You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant_…"

By the time he repeated the second line everyone was belting out the lyrics at full volume. They finished the song with gusto, and Arlo applauded the crowd. "Now, _that__'__s_ what I mean!" he yelled.

"Ladies and gentlemen… Arlo Guthrie," Seeger formally introduced him with a playful wave. "Or, as some people call him, 'Woody Guthrie's little boy.'"

Arlo rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Only you call me that, Pete," he said as they walked off stage.

Seeger clapped a hand on his shoulders "Ah, I'm just the only one you let get away with it."

"That was awesome, man!" Dennys was on a music high that would probably last all night.

"Even my dad likes Pete Seeger," Maddie enthused. "And my mom was at one of his union marches way back when. Which is kinda weird when you think about it, my dad is pretty conservative." She frowned. "Oh, well. So they cancel out each other's vote. Who's staying?"

"I'm actually kind of hungry," Tish ventured.

Donald glanced at Elizabeth and was shocked at how pale she looked. With a guilty jolt he realized it had been close to ten hours since they had eaten. "Dinner sounds good," he quickly seconded.

"Ah—sure," Dennys said, quickly covering his disappointment.

"Hey, listen—you guys want to stay—" Gene dug his keys out of a pocket. "No prob. Don't run anyone over. We can hitch back with Don and Liz, right?"

"Absolutely," Donald said quickly.

"Problem solved," Gene said. He tossed the keys to Dennys. "Don't forget, we're locking the inside door at eleven."

Dennys flicked a glance at Donald and Elizabeth, then nodded. Donald knew he was blushing slightly but there was nothing he could do about it. "Yeah, we'll—ah—we'll be quiet when we come in." He grabbed Maddie's hand. "Come on. I saw Stu on the other side. Wants to grab a burger and a brew, okay?"

"Sure. Haven't seen him in ages." Maddie flew around the group distributing hugs and kisses and 'see ya!' waves.

"Are you all right?" Donald asked quietly as he bent over to help Elizabeth up.

"Yeah, just starting to crash a little."

He understood her reference. "Here. Hold up." He dug in the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a 3 Musketeers bar. "It's a bit squashed, but it should get you up long enough to get to dinner."

"Thanks." She sat back down and tore the wrapper with slightly shaking hands.

"Here." Tish almost magically appeared at her elbow, a cup of water in hand. "You forgot your peanut butter cups, didn't you?"

Elizabeth nodded with an almost guilty look, biting into the candy bar.

Donald gave her a stern look. "Are you hypoglycemic?"

She held her fingers up about an inch apart. "Not that much. Usually it's not a problem—"

"Except for when they're running hours behind and then we hang around until almost eight. We should be glad you're still conscious," her sister said sharply, hands on hips. "I should have checked to make sure one of us brought Reese's. Jeez."

"Not your fault," Elizabeth mumbled around the last of the candy bar. She was already perking up. "I should pay attention—plus they were running late."

"Hey." Gene had stepped off to talk to someone and now rejoined the group. "There's a place right down the road, called Apple Annie's. Guy says it's really good food, local stuff, good prices. Closer than the hotel."

"I'm game," Tish said. Elizabeth and Donald nodded in agreement. They slowly made their way out the side entrance and down the path toward the parking lot. "Mmh?" Tish stopped at Donald's light tug on her elbow.

Elizabeth and Gene, engrossed in a discussion of a film Gene was working on, continued on ahead. "I just wanted to ask you something." Tish looked at him expectantly. "This morning, when you and Elizabeth were talking, she said something…" He trailed off, hoping she'd pick up the reference.

She cocked her head, looking at him blankly. "Yeah?"

He sighed. "Did you and she… really discuss… ah…"

Light dawned. She started to smile. "Oh, yeah. We… 'discussed.'" She was grinning broadly. "We 'discussed,' and 'discussed,' and 'discussed'… like, nothing else for the past month and a half." Her grin threatened to split her face in two. "We got into some really esoteric, theoretical—"

"Okay, okay, sorry I—"

"Oh, hell, I think I learned a thing or two!" She winked. "I know _she_ did." She skipped off to catch up with her sister and fiancé.

Would it be dreadfully tacky to say 'thank you?'

"You're welcome!" came drifting back softly. Followed by a tiny giggle.

Okay. Now she officially scared him.

/ / /

"You are so sweet…"

He glanced up and smiled. "I try." He had been gently massaging her feet for a good ten minutes or more—if for no other reason, she was actually limping by the time they came back from dinner and leaning heavily on his arm. He had even procured a supply of Epsom salts from the hotel doctor and demanded she soak her feet in warm water for some twenty minutes before he started rubbing her feet. "You see… I plan to spoil my wife… let her know every day how special she is…" She leaned back against the pillows, luxuriating at his touch and smiling smugly at his words. "Because… that way…" He lightly pinched her big toe playfully. "She'll never be inclined to run off with the milkman."

Elizabeth snorted, then pretended to think. "I dunno… is the milkman cute?"

"Hideous. Older than dirt—trained with Moses, I hear. Plain as a mud fence. Only three scraggly teeth—" Elizabeth started to giggle. "Balding, gray, all wrinkly—"

"Don't make me laugh!" She wriggled and pulled her foot back. "That makes it tickle!" She burst into giggles.

"Are you… ticklish?" He ran a finger over the bottom of her other foot and she yelped and pulled it away.

"Only once I start laughing—no! No! That's not—that's not fair!" she cried then laughed as he moved up to tickle her sides. "No, Donald—!"

"You could tickle me back—"

She did so. "You're not ticklish!" she complained, even as she laughed harder under his assault.

"Never said I was." She just hadn't discovered where… yet.

"No!" she laughed. "No! Oh—!" His hands had quickly changed to a firm caress, sliding up under her shirt. "Oh…" she sighed. "_Oh_…" She pulled him down for a deep kiss. "What… do you have in mind?" she breathed into his ear. He slipped down and kissed her navel, trailing his tongue up as he slid her t-shirt up over her breasts and her upstretched arms. "Oh, yeah," she sighed when he kissed her again. "I like that." His hands moved behind her, quickly unhooking her bra. "I like that a lot."

A loud laugh from the other room made them jump in surprise then grin at each other. Gene and Tish were apparently watching television. "We're going to have to be… _quiet_," Donald said, lowering his voice.

Elizabeth grinned. "This… could be interesting."

/ / / / /

**June 15, 1969**

"Well… one thing is for certain." Donald shook his head slowly. "There isn't a clan around that will claim that tartan!"

"Phooey," Maddie laughed. "I think it's cute."

"It's, ah, _different_," he said. "That's for sure."

Dennys was attired in some of his more casual "faire garb." But the girls…! Elizabeth and Maddie were dressed in matching outfits: plain black bodices that laced up the front and under the bosom (he definitely liked that—it was even more stunning than her Renaissance dance outfit had been); frilly, lace-trimmed, ankle-length flowing white chemises with short puffed sleeves and low necklines; floppy white mob caps atop burnished curls and matching white aprons. (He had to admit, Elizabeth looked fabulous as a redhead.)

It was the skirt that threw him. Gathered up on one side to show off the chemise below, it was a wide, flowing skirt with fringe where it lapped over in front. They had managed to find enormous kilt pins, though they were obviously just for show—the skirts had elastic waistbands and were stitched down in front. But the tartan itself… Horizontal bands of bright turquoise, yellow and pink; vertical bands of bright Kelly green, purple and an orange that made his eyes water. Where they crossed colors of indescribable hues were created. And the designer hadn't stopped there—no, the wide bands had thinner stripes of not necessarily complementary colors, and the whole was shot through with gold thread. To say that it clashed with their hair was an understatement.

"It's… memorable," he added.

"And that's what we want," Elizabeth said, leaning into the mirror to rouge up her cheeks. This trip would be easier—the only instruments they were bringing were Dennys' drum and Maddie's mandolin; most of the songs were going to be a cappella. They had wandered over earlier to see how the show was going; the acts were enjoyable, but the show was now closer to five hours behind schedule. Fortunately the music was supposed to end Sunday night and the Shakespeare fest Monday night—if they ran over into Monday (which now looked quite probable), nobody would really care much.

Except for supervisors. Back at the hotel, Donald had tried tracking down Dr. Stewart—to no end. Mrs. Stewart had been home (he was rather surprised), but he had caught Tish's frantic headshake and declined to leave a message.

"We'll find it in a week and she won't remember writing it," she said, rolling her eyes. "Let's go straight to the top." She took the receiver from his hand, called the front desk and rattled off a telephone number to the operator. After a moment, she handed the receiver back. "It's ringing."

There was a click, then: "Hel_lo_?"

Donald grinned. Sassy. Of course.

Now it was late Sunday afternoon. Instead of being halfway back to Los Angeles, they were getting ready for the last performance and then a restful evening before heading out in the morning. Donald tore his eyes away from the enhanced swell of Elizabeth's breasts and sighed; maybe the evening wouldn't be _too_ restful. Another night of lovemaking would be a wonderful end to the weekend (especially if they managed to top the night before—he doubted they could, but he was willing to try).

She stepped close behind him. "You want to go to the Shakespeare fest tonight?"

"Do you?" He tried not to sound incredulous.

"Well, I wouldn't mind seeing _Merry __Wives __of __Windsor_ if we finish early enough… but I hear they're doing _Othello_ set in modern times and _Midsummer __Night__'__s __Dream_ at midnight, and the others are definitely hanging around for both of them." She ran her finger up his spine and he shivered. "Probably won't be back until close to four…" She circled around him and walked into the sitting room, swishing her skirts and wiggling her hips seductively.

Bawdy Barmaids… fit.

/ / /

They started off their set with the song that had first caught his ear, _The __Maiden__'__s __Revenge_. It was even more amusing on stage, particularly with the response from the audience. Dennys actually took the lead for their second song, Maddie and Elizabeth singing soft harmony and Maddie accompanying them on her mandolin. It was the song Tish had mentioned on Friday, _Jack __Haggardy_. Donald remembered hearing the song years before… but he didn't remember it being quite so sad.

"_I'm a heartbroken raftsman, from Greenville I came;  
>All my virtue's departed with the lass I did fain.<br>From the strong darts of Cupid I've suffered much grief;  
>My heart's broke asunder, I can get no relief.<em>

_Of my trouble I'll tell you without much delay;  
>Of a sweet little lassie my heart stole away.<br>She's a blacksmith's fair daughter from the Flat River Side,  
>And I always intended to make her my bride."<em>

Dennys was actually one heck of a singer; the fun and frolic on _Revenge_ was, well, fun and frolic—the lament of a young man who worked hard and courted a young woman only to have her turn fickle… now, there his talents shone. He actually had a few people in the audience crying by the end.

"'_Til she wrote me a letter which I did receive.  
>And she said from her promise herself she'd relieve.<br>To wed with another she'd a long time delayed,  
>And the next time I'd see her she'd no more be a maid.<em>

_To her mother, Jane Tucker, I lay all the blame;  
>For she caused her to leave and go back on my name,<br>To cast off the riggings that God was to tie,  
>And to leave me a rambler 'til the day that I die.<em>

_Now come all ye bold raftsmen with hearts stout and true,  
>Don't trust to a woman, 'cause you're beat if you do!<br>But if you do meet one with a dark chestnut curl,  
>Remember Jack Haggerty and the Flat River Girl."<em>

"Three years ago he couldn't have done that." Tish stood next to Donald, arms folded and her face shining with pride. "My brother… is fuckin' awesome."

He dropped an arm around her shoulders. "His sister isn't too shabby, either," he said, remembering her spirited defense that Friday afternoon. He gave her a light squeeze.

"Well, I figured that out when you asked her to marry you—"

"Well, of course, Elizabeth… but I did mean you." On impulse he gave her a quick kiss on the temple.

She bumped her hip against his. "Jeez. You're gonna make me blush." She was, too.

"Oh, it's good for your circulation," he teased.

"Speaking of circulation—you want me to have any more, ah, _talks_ with Bizzy…?" She grinned at him.

"No, no… the ones you've already had have been… more than adequate." He managed to keep a straight face.

"Jesus, I hope so. I had to look stuff up in some of Dad's books."

There wasn't any way he could answer that that wouldn't get him in further trouble so he sat back to watch the rest of the set.

"Okay, everyone…" Maddie swished her hips and grinned at the whoops and catcalls. "This next one is a crowd song—you're the crowd, better sing along. Each time we add a line, you sing the _whollllllle_ thing all over again with the new line added on. You'll catch on if you haven't heard it before."

She and Elizabeth began belting out a merry tune with Dennys clapping time. The crowd quickly picked up the tempo and clapped along.

"_Here's good luck to the pint pot  
>Good luck to the barley mow<br>__Jolly good luck to the pint pot  
>Good luck to the barley mow<br>Here's the pint pot, half a pint  
>Gill pot, half a gill, quarter gill<br>Nippikin and the brown bowl  
>Here's good luck, good luck to the barley mow!"<em>

At the end of the verse Elizabeth, Maddie and Dennys grabbed large pewter tankards from the stools behind them and took gulps of what was presumed to be beer (but was actually plain water) and then returned to the song.

"_Here's good luck to the quart pot  
>Good luck to the barley mow<br>__Jolly good luck to the quart pot  
>Good luck to the barley mow<br>Here's the quart pot, pint pot, half a pint  
>Gill pot, half a gill, quarter gill<br>Nipperkin and the brown bowl  
>Here's good luck, good luck to the barley mow!"<em>

Each time they added a new measure (or item or person, as the song went on) at the beginning they added it to the growing list… which the girls managed to sing in one breath. As time went on it became increasingly more difficult. (By the end it was truly ridiculous.)

"_Here's the comp'ny, the brewer,  
><em>_The bookie, the slavey, the drayer, the barmaid—"_

The girls pointed to themselves as they had when mentioning the barmaid on prior rounds. As with the other times, there was a roar of appreciation from the crowd.

"_The landlady, landlord, the barrel, the half-barrel,  
><em>_Bushel, the half-bushel, gallon the half-gallon,  
><em>_Quart pot, pint pot, half-a-pint,  
><em>_Gill pot, half-a-gill, quarter-gill,  
><em>_Nipperkin and the brown bowl—"_

Elizabeth and Maddie gasped for breath, barely holding one another up and took long draws on their drinks, holding up free hands in a 'wait a minute!' gesture. Finally they smacked their mugs down and went back to the microphone to finish off, _"__Here__'__s __good __luck__… __good __luck __to __the __barley __mow!__"_ holding on to the last note for all they were worth.

The applause was tremendous. "Three days in, the crowd loves a good drinking song," Tish laughed. "Oh, oh, you have got to hear this one…!"

Dennys, grinning widely, was drumming as he had for their opening song. Before they began to sing, Elizabeth caught sight of Donald and gave him a broad, wide wink… and blew him a kiss. Maddie followed suit and they giggled like schoolgirls.

"_There were two fair young maids  
><em>_Two red headed lasses  
><em>_Who admired in all men  
>Their cute little… earlobes!"<em>

_Oh, __dear __God__…_ Donald dropped his forehead into his hand and laughed along with the audience.

_"Oh red heads they say have all the luck_  
><em>And it is said that they like to get…<br>__Roses and daisies and tulips and posies…!"_

"Foolish man." Tish's comment was about the stagehand who had just choked and spilled his beer all down the front of his shirt. Donald was wise enough to not drink anything while they were on stage.

"_With red hair blazing like fire  
><em>_No ordinary maids,  
><em>_With men they desire,  
><em>_They like to get… presents!_

_Oh red heads they say have all the luck  
><em>_And it is said that they like to get…  
><em>_Roses and daisies and tulips and posies…!"_

Hmm… should he buy roses or daisies or tulips or plain old posies…?

"_Their talents are refined  
><em>_Some say they are the best  
><em>_They'll make you lose your mind  
><em>_When you squeezed them in the… tavern."_

"Shame on you!" Maddie called out good-naturedly to a young man who stood up and made graphic grabbing motions.

"_Oh red heads they say have all the luck  
><em>_And it is said that they like to get…  
><em>_Roses and daisies and tulips and posies…!_

_They find that some young men  
><em>_Are frightened away  
><em>_Like timid little boys  
><em>_Who seem like they are… cowards._

_Oh red heads they say have all the luck  
><em>_And it is said that they like to get…  
><em>_Roses and daisies and tulips and posies…!"_

_We wrote this song for you  
><em>_In hopes it would inspire  
><em>_A lesson to be learned  
><em>_It's fun to play with fire!"_

"Now I understand the wig," Donald laughed, applauding wildly.

"Yeah, friend of Maddie's wrote that one. Real cool chick."

Donald snorted. "I'd've said _hot_ from those lyrics."

Tish gave him a wicked grin. "Should I tell my sister what you just said?"

"She's the one who sang it…"

There was a minor bit of dissension on stage. Maddie was whispering in Elizabeth's ear and gesticulating wildly. For her part, Elizabeth was shaking her head more and more strongly with each shake and turning quite red. Dennys made a show of looking up, looking around, tapping his foot, pulling out a pocket watch to check the time and then sighing heavily. Whatever was coming, it sure sounded good.

Discussion over, Dennys made a show of starting to drum. But when they started singing Donald wasn't entirely sure Elizabeth had been faking her blush. (And when he tried to duck out, Tish grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around to face the stage and held him in place.)

"_Well a Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar one evening fair  
>And one could tell by how he walked that he'd drunk more than his share<br>He fumbled 'round until he could no long keep his feet  
>And he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street<br>Ring-ding-diddle-liddle-i-de-o, ring-di-diddley-i-o  
><em>_He stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street."_

"I know this song and your brother will see me hanged."

"Ha. Not hung?"

Donald groaned and hoped that when the end came it would be swift and painless.

_"__About __the __time __two __young __and __lovely __girls __just __happened __by  
>One <em>_says __to __the __other, __with __a __twinkle __in __her __eye  
><em>_'__See __yon __sleeping __Scotsman, __so __strong __and handsome __built  
>I <em>_wonder __if __it's __true __what __they __don't __wear __beneath __the __kilt.__'__  
><em>_Ring-ding-diddle-liddle-i-de-o, __ring-di-diddley-i-o  
><em>'_I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt.'"_

"Tish… I thought you _liked _me."

_"__They __crept __up __on __the __sleeping __Scotsman __quiet __as __could __be  
>They <em>_lifted __up __his __kilt __about __an __inch __so __they __could __see  
>And <em>_there, __behold, __for __them __to __view __beneath __his __Scottish __skirt  
>Was <em>_nothing __more __than __God __had __graced __him __with __upon __his __birth  
><em>_Ring-ding-diddle-liddle-i-de-o, __ring-di-diddley-i-o  
><em>_Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth."_

"I do, Don, I do." She chortled. "More and more…"

_"__They __marveled __for __a __moment, __then __one __said,__ '__We __must __be __gone.  
>Let's <em>_leave __a __present __for __our __friend __before __we __move __along.__'__  
>As <em>_a __gift __they__ left __a __blue __silk __ribbon __tied __into __a __bow  
>Around<em>_ the __bonnie __star __the __Scot__'__s __kilt __did __lift __and __show  
><em>_Ring-ding-diddle-liddle-i-de-o, __ring-di-diddley-i-o  
><em>_Around the bonnie star the Scot's kilt did lift and show_

_Now the Scotsman woke to natures call and stumbled for the trees_  
><em>Behind the bush he lifts his kilt, and gawks at what he sees<em>  
><em>And in a startled voice he says, to what's before his eyes,<em>  
><em>'Lad, I don't know where you've been, but I see you've won first prize!'<br>__Ring-ding-diddle-liddle-i-de-o, ring-di-diddley-i-o  
><em>_'Lad, I don't know where you've been, but I see you've won first prize!'"_

Well… at least Dennys had thrown his head back and was laughing along with the audience. He could only hope it wasn't playacting.

Another two songs in a similar vein and they exited the stage to whistles and whoops. "Thank you, Bawdy Barmaids!" the announcer called over the PA. "Hey, got a question… if you had two guys singing and they were the Bawdy Bar_men_, the gal would be, what, their serving wench? So if they're the Bawdy Bar_maids_, what does that make him? What's a male wench?"

Dennys stopped halfway off the stage and very slowly turned around. Donald could see the sly smile that clearly branded him a sibling to Elizabeth and Tish. He sauntered back across the stage, playing his part to the hilt. Finally he leaned into the microphone and when the audience was silent, said, "I figure 'you lucky bastard' is close enough."

The audience went into fits. Grinning, Dennys strolled off with a definite swagger in his step. "Oh, yeah," Tish gasped. "He's come a long way!"

Donald froze when Dennys clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Man, I gotta say… you've got a good sense of humor if you can stand up to all that."

Donald knew one song in particular generated his praise. "Ah, well… it's all in fun." He laughed weakly.

"Hey—we _are_ Scottish on Dad's side. I don't mind that claim to fame!"

_Good heavens. I'm not dead. This is my lucky day. I'm going back to the hotel, I'm crawling into bed, and I'm going to sleep and sleep and sleep and may I **never** wake up—_

"Hey, sweetheart. Gene is talking about going back to Apple Annie's for dinner; sound good?"

"Dressed like _that_?"

She looked like she was going to object to his protestation—then she smiled slowly and lifted an eyebrow. "I dunno… will you be able to keep an eye on your dinner plate?"

He leaned close. "Maybe… maybe not," he whispered. "But I'll be thinking of things I'd _much_ rather eat than what's on the menu."

/ / /

"My turn."

Donald sat on the edge of the bed and grinned. "Your turn?"

Elizabeth put her fists on her hips and walked forward slowly across the room, the skirt of her costume swishing. "Uh-huh." She stood in front of him; his eyes were almost level with her bosom. She grinned as he swallowed hard. "Last night," she said, slowly pulling the ends of the bodice laces, untying the bow, "you decided to…" She loosened the crisscrossed laces until it was loose enough to slip up and out of. "Have some fun."

"Yeah, we—ah—had some fun." One thing to be said for the costume—no way in hell she could wear a bra with it. (And many of the Shakespeare players had been to dinner in costume; she and Maddie had blended right in.)

"Oh, no argument there." Apron and skirt fell to the ground and she stood before him in a long white gown that made her look like an angel or a sacrificial virgin. (Too late.) (And no angel would have a neckline that low… not that he remembered from church, anyway.) "I _definitely_ had a lot of fun." She reached out and began to unbutton his shirt, one of the embroidered Mexican shirts Dennys had loaned him. "But turnabout is fair play. Now it's time for _me_… to have fun with _you_." She leaned closer to push the shirt down his arms.

"Such as…?" When she just smiled more broadly he felt a twinge of trepidation. "_Such_ _as_…?" he repeated a little more strongly. He tried to think if she and Tish had had any large amount of time alone together and almost rolled his eyes. God, with Tish, five minutes would have been enough. Two, even.

"Oh, don't worry."

'_Don__'__t __worry,__' __she __says._ "Honey, it's one thing for a woman to come four our five times in a row, and God knows every man on this planet envies you the ability—" He pulled the shirt off and tossed it aside. She tugged his hands and he stood.

She reached up to kiss him. "Five was the first time you tried." She grinned. "Broke that record."

"Yes… we did." He couldn't help but slide into a grin in response. He gasped slightly as she fumbled with the fastening on his (again, Dennys') jeans. "But, Ealasaid, darling, I just—want you to know—I mean, give me enough _time_ and, well—"

"Oh… don't worry. I know."

_Of __course __you __do. __You __have __your __sister, __which __is __like __having __Kinsey __and __Masters __and __Johnson __at __your __fingertips._ He winced. _Bad __choice __of __words, __sport._

She slipped her hands inside, gently squeezing his buttocks while urging the pants down. "Believe me… I was counting."

Damn. The pants were tangled with his sandals. He tried to slip one from his foot and damned near lost his balance. He sat back down on the bed and almost laughed at the severe tenting of his shorts. _Haven__'__t __had __a __weekend __with __this __kind __of __scorecard __since __I __first __discovered __the __fun __you __can __have __alone __in __the __shower._

"Let me." She knelt in front of him and he couldn't help the soft groan. She flicked her eyes up at him and smiled slyly as she slipped off the troublesome footwear.

_Does she know what she's—oh, yeah, she knows **exactly** what she's doing to me._

The jeans followed the sandals and she pressed a slow, hot kiss to first one knee and then the other.

"Don't do that," he gasped. "I swear, I'm going to come right now."

"Mmh. Can't have that." She stood up and leaned over to kiss him, slow and deep. "But wouldn't you be more comfortable with those off?"

He slipped a hand behind her neck and carefully tumbled her to the bed. "Ladies first," he teased over her startled squeak.

She sat up. "Love, honor… and obey."

"Obey, eh?" He grinned as she started to pull the flowing chemise over her head. "That could lead to all sorts of interesting ideas."

"Oh?" She tossed the gown across the room and quickly slipped out of her panties. She slid over on the sheet, head propped on her hand and one leg drawn up. "Like… what ideas?"

_Ideas? __Ideas? __Only __one __idea __right __now!_ He was surprised his erection hadn't caused the shorts to fly off under its own power. Alas, they needed just a little assist from him. He quickly moved over and all but fell into her open arms. "I'll think of some later."

She wriggled about slightly beneath him then gasped when he entered her quickly, a sharp, deep thrust. "Oh, _God_, you feel good!" she cried before he could worry that he'd actually hurt her this time.

He hadn't been joking a moment ago. To his embarrassment, it only took a minute or two of frantic pistoning before he climaxed with a shuddering groan. He started to apologize—that hadn't happened since he was a teen!—but she cut him off with a kiss.

"The next one will be longer," she whispered. She kissed him again and smiled against his lips. "_I_ promise."

He couldn't help but laugh softly. "Oh, you do, do you?"

"Mm-hmm." She gently pushed him so that he rolled over and lay next to her. "As a matter of fact…" She sprawled next to him and kissed him deeply, slowly drawing his tongue into her mouth, sucking it lightly and releasing it, over and over. "I guarantee it."

"Guarantee…?"

"Mm-hmm." She kissed his chin, the hollow of his throat… He released a happy sigh as she continued to move down his body; _oh, __yes__…_ Not only had she been a willing pupil, an apt pupil, she was actually an enthusiastic pupil.

He reached down and stroked her hair as she slipped him into her mouth, sucking gently and taking the last drops from him. She licked and kissed her way around from the base up, then took him in as deeply as she could, sliding in and out, fellating him slowly and thoroughly. "God, if you had any idea how that feels…"

She smiled and pulled back, kissing the flared tip over and over. "Well… I know you can't really tell how it feels when you lick me… but it's pretty damned mind-blowing."

He sighed as she ran her tongue up the underside, groaning when she reached the sensitive ridge and licked it, flicking the tip of her tongue as quickly as a hummingbird's wing, then gently nipping the very tip of his cock with just her lips. "Let's—let's call it equal," he gasped. "You, ah, planning on doing this… a lot tonight?"

She looked up and grinned while she ran her fingers along his stiffening organ. "Told you… it's my turn to keep score."

_I'm going to die. But I'm going to die happy. Very… very… happy._

* * *

><p>15<p> 


	16. Piano Operetta

**Chapter Sixteen: Piano Operetta**

_**Piano:** An instruction in  
>sheet music to play softly.<br>__**Operetta:** A short light musical drama._

* * *

><p><strong>June 21, 1969 <strong>

Four and a half days.

It may have well been four and a half years.

Even telephone calls were agonizing.

Before, they had been able to fill hours with idle chatter, just for the sheer joy of hearing the other. But now every word brought back memories of holding one another, loving one another, and the knowledge that it would be months—probably years—before they could be together again was an ache. There were times Donald thought maybe they should have waited, that having one short weekend together and then living with being apart was simply too much to take.

Then he would think about the unabashed joy of their lovemaking and tell himself he was crazy, that even one night to remember was better than none at all.

So they lived with whispered words and heartfelt promises. I love you. I miss you. I dream of you every night. I wish I could hold you right now. I close my eyes and hear your voice, feel your touch… Now… only one more week in the U.S., one more week in California, one more week to hear her voice, possibly hold her hand, kiss her lips—

"Mr. Mallard?"

He almost walked into the wall. "Mrs. Kelley! Ah—yes, I'm sorry, I was daydreaming a bit. May I help you?"

"I'm going to take a wild guess that it's your fiancée on your mind?"

He had the grace to blush; yes—and if Mrs. Kelley had any idea precisely what he had been thinking of, she wouldn't be smiling so broadly… if at all. "Guilty."

"Well, then, you'll feel right at home—your future father-in-law would like to have a word with you."

Dear God, did he read minds? Did _she_? "Ah—ma'am?"

"Dr. Stewart called while you were on the way over from the clinic. He'll be in his office until seven, asked if you'd stop by."

"Of course," he said automatically. "Thank you."

As he walked across the campus, he was nudged by an attack of guilt. What if Dr. Stewart had discovered what had happened in Napa? It wasn't exactly a secret—well, it was to Dr. Stewart, but not to anyone who had been up there. Had someone let something slip? Was he being sent back home? (Was he being sent to the morgue?)

Neither of the above it seemed. Sassy jumped up from her desk with a squeal. "Ducky!" She flung her arms around him like a long lost… something. "I heard the good _news_! Congratu_la_tions! I just a_dore_ Elizabeth, she is _so_ _sweet_, the two of you are _per_fect for each other—!"

"Sassy, let the boy go and finish the dictation! If Lizzie hears you've been manhandling her fiancé, she'll knock your block off!"

Sassy giggled and Donald grinned. "She will, too!" Sassy laughed, pushing him toward the inner office.

"So. I take it the weekend went well?"

"Ah—yes, sir. We spent most of Thursday in San Francisco. They did get a bit behind at the show; Eal—Elizabeth and Tish performed on Friday afternoon, they kept getting further and further behind—Elizabeth and Madalena sang late on Sunday afternoon so we had to stay over until Monday morning—" He smiled despite his nervousness. "Elizabeth, she's—she's amazing."

Dr. Stewart nodded. "I'd rather gathered you feel that way," he said wryly. "Now—I am going to plead absentminded professor, here—I have a commitment to a retirement dinner tomorrow night in San Diego. It starts at noon, a whole afternoon of boozing and schmoozing and 'so long, Jim, have a good retirement' but the dinner doesn't start until eight and I _know_ it won't be over by midnight… Julia—Julia may or may not be going with me," he said diplomatically. "That's still up in the air. Mr. Langley has already given me his report for the week; I just need to get your assessment." He shook his head. "It's been a fast summer. I can't believe you only have one more week until you go home."

"Neither can I." Donald managed to keep from sounding totally depressed. Only one more week…

"Well, I'm sure Lizzie has something planned for dinner tomorrow—although I have a feeling Mr. Langley might politely decline."

"Mmmh, I don't know—Mandy is rather fond of not cooking… and getting a good meal at the same time."

"Not to mention the gaudy fascination of spending a day with people who are neither coworkers nor fellow med students—at least none with whom she works."

"True. Well—except for Edward Langley."

"And for Mr. Langley she will make an exception."

Donald was able to give a quick but concise evaluation of the week, giving a detailed accounting of a new program one of the nurses had suggested and then implemented. After seeing yet another elderly patient recalling the same story for the hundredth time for yet another child or grandchild who struggled to keep the boredom from showing on their face, the idea of rent-a-grandparent was born. Children with no grandparents came to the facility after school; the younger ones simply visited and played games, while the older children were visiting, playing _and_ 'interviewing' the patients for a collected history book.

"It's simply marvelous, sir. These youngsters haven't heard the stories over and over—to them, it's something new. They look at this as a prized job, being an interviewer. They don't just listen, they ask questions, get the patients to recall names, places, dates—the smallest details—then write it up as a newspaper interview or short story. Both sides benefit, and the written history will be valued by the families when grandmother or grandfather are gone and can no longer repeat the story that had been so cavalierly ignored."

"It sounds like a stroke of genius."

"Having seen it in action, sir, I can tell you that it is. If you're looking for someone to laud, her name is Rachel Cooper."

"I'll be on site Monday, so I'll be able to put specifics for my report." He gave Donald a half-smile. "Perhaps I can invite my future son-in-law to lunch."

Donald smiled. "I have it on good authority that your future son-in-law will be delighted to accept."

"You'd better check with Lizzie about dinner tomorrow. Here." Dr. Stewart picked up the telephone receiver and held it out, punching an outside line. "Save your pocket change. Or—" He raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer that your future father-in-law not be privy to your conversations with his daughter?"

Ooh, awkward. "Not at all." He smiled gamely as the line rang.

"Hello?"

He knew he had a dopey smile on his face but he couldn't help it. "Hullo, dear."

"Donald…" The softest sigh.

"I just finished my assessment with your father—" Subtle. "And he mentioned plans tomorrow evening regarding a retirement dinner."

"Yes." He could hear barely repressed delight in her voice. "Mom is already packing. She loves San Diego. TJ is right across the border."

"Mmh. Do you know if Ed and Mandy will be joining us?"

"Maybe… When I talked to Amanda yesterday she was hinting that they'd like to spend the last weekend together. Alone."

"I can understand completely." Boy, could he.

"She'll be back at the apartment soon, I'll give her a call."

"I realize this is grievously late to ask, but… do you have plans this evening?"

He could hear her impish grin. "Not yet."

"I would love to take my fiancée out to a nice dinner, maybe a movie…?"

"Oooh." There was a quiet rustle. "Wanna make out at the drive-in?" she teased. Her voice was soft and muffled, like she had her hand cupped over the receiver.

Thank God her father was too far away to hear her end of the conversation. "The Nuart sounds wonderful."

"Daddy right behind you?"

"Almost."

"Okay, okay, no more flirting…" Flirting? Understatement.

"Seven o'clock?"

"I'll be waiting." She sighed. "I love you."

"I love you, too." There was a picture of the three kids on Dr. Stewart's desk, right in Donald's line of vision. He stared at the slightly-younger version of Elizabeth and smiled. "Think about where you want to eat."

She gave a low, wicked chuckle and he bit his lip to (hopefully) keep from blushing. _Oh, __God, __please __no __hard-on __until __I __get __out __the __door__…_ "You like Indian food?"

"Love it," he said quickly. He'd never eaten Indian food in his life.

"There's this place in Manhattan called The Shah—"

"Shah. Sounds great. Seven? Six-thirty?" _Oh, __God, __hang __up __before __your __father __flails __me._

"Six-thirty." She made a smooch noise into the telephone and clattered the receiver into place.

"The Shah?" her father repeated incredulously. "You're taking her to The Shah?"

"Ah—yes," he said uncertainly, hanging up the telephone.

"Donald—not to be nosy, but—I know how broke med students usually are," he said bluntly. "The Shah is… not cheap."

"Well, Elizabeth has cooked the most incredible meals almost every weekend I've been here, I don't see a problem with taking her out for a special dinner as opposed to burgers at the A&W stand." Granted, those mid-week burgers and parking by the beach had been pretty darn nice. "Plus, as you pointed out, I'll only be here another week." Dr. Stewart still looked uncertain. "I have a line of credit from Barclay's, sir. I'm fine."

"Well, don't let her bankrupt you, son." He wagged a finger at Donald. "Start saving up for my grandchildren."

This time the blush won out over the bitten lip.

/ / /

Fortunately he still had quite a bit of cash left from the trip to Northern California. Even still, The Shah put a dent in his wallet. But it was worth it. The food was out of this world, the belly dancers were entertaining as heck—and they didn't give a rat's pajamas that he and Elizabeth snuggled together on the pillow-padded floor and all but made love with their clothing on.

"Pack a bag," she murmured as the waiter set the bill on the low table.

"What—now?"

"No, you goose."

"Ducky—not goose."

She gave him a slow grin. "I'll show you a goose…"

"Is that a promise?"

"Yep." She waited until the waiter had taken the check and the money away before leaning over and giving him a long kiss that bespoke a wonderful evening to follow. "Pack a bag," she whispered. "Mandy's roommates are gone for the weekend, so we won't see her or Eddie. Denny is working a show at the Coliseum, then going home with Mad. Tish is going with Gene to some science fiction group meeting for the weekend." She barely touched her lips to his. "Instead of just some heavy petting at the movies tonight… we can have all tomorrow together. _Alone_. And tomorrow _night_. Alone." She tipped her head to one side. "Or we could go to the movies tonight _and_ spend tomorrow night together… if you're interested."

He matched her grin. "Definitely."

/ / / / /

June 22, 1969

If he had felt risqué going off to spend the weekend in a hotel with his fiancée, slipping off to spend the night at her house brought a whole new meaning to the word. It wasn't the first time he'd spent the night at a woman's house—but this time she was still living at home with her parents. It was her parents' home—not hers.

There was a kind of sneaky thrill to it, actually.

Feeling like every neighbor's eye was upon him, Donald slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and hurried to the front door. Elizabeth had said she would be busy in the kitchen, to just walk in and yell. Sure enough, the door was unlocked. "Ealasaid?"

"Kitchen!"

He tossed his bag on the couch and followed her voice. Inside the doorway, he stopped. _Two __years__… __two __years __and __you__'__ll __come __home __from __work __to __see __this __sight __every __night __for __the __rest __of __your __life. _Elizabeth was rapidly chopping vegetables and tossing them into an enormous pot, while the smell of something sweet and spicy wafted from the oven. She didn't look like the perfect television mother—no pearls, heels and shirtwaist dress with frilly apron—but her cutoff jeans and tie-dyed t-shirt made their own homey stamp.

"Take a picture…"

"What?" he laughed.

She tossed a last handful of potatoes into the pot and turned to him with a grin. "Don't stare. Take a picture—it'll last longer."

He stepped over to her. "I'd love to take a picture." He raked his eyes up and down her body and she blushed faintly. "Got a camera?" He pulled her close, kissing her hard.

"What if customs searches your luggage?"

"I'll put it in my wallet." Mmmmh. The idea of sneaking a picture of a nude Elizabeth back home was doing wonderful things to his libido.

She grinned up at him. "Lemme think about it."

"And you were so sweet and shy when I first met you."

"If you had read my mind—oh, my, the dreams I had that first night…!"

"Oh, really?" He nuzzled her throat. "Like what?"

"Let me finish getting dinner on and I'll tell you."

"Dinner? Instead of making love? And at ten in the morning?"

She laughed and ducked around him. "I'm trying to figure out which part of that statement you find more appalling." She grabbed a set of oven mitts; from the oven she pulled a cookie sheet upon which sat a large, bubbling pie.

"Mmmh. Looks good."

"We, my dear British husband, are having a real American dinner tonight. Yankee pot roast and apple pie with cheddar cheese."

"That's English."

She looked at him in disbelief. "I'm sorry, what part of _Yankee_ pot roast did you miss? And what could be more American than apple pie?"

He grinned. "Well, the village of Cheddar—"

She threw the oven mitts at him. She missed.

"You must work on that pitching arm, dearest."

/ / /

Elizabeth turned on the television and scrambled onto the couch, cuddling next to Donald. "What is _that_?" he asked.

He was pointing to a box in her hands. It had several buttons on it and a large cable ran from it to the television set. "It's a remote control—the newest, hippest thing," she said, rolling her eyes and laughing. "Daddy is such a sucker for gizmos. A few years ago, he had to get a new car—because they had come out with a push-button transmission on the dashboard. He is so hooked on all the science fiction shows he bought _that_." She pointed to a box next to the television. "When he won't be home, he can set a timer on it and it will record the television show up to three days away. You have to be a math major to figure it out—but it's kinda cool. Of course, it cost as much as putting a fourth kid through college, but, hey, we're talking about a man who still buys Heath kits and Erector sets… for himself."

It was actually rather ingenious—by pushing a button on the remote control, the knob clicked around, changing channels with each click. "Ha," he said as Elizabeth stopped at one channel. "At last."

"At last—what?"

He pointed to the television. "Advert for the movie later on. Sherlock Holmes. _The __Woman __in __Green_."

She grabbed the TV Guide from the table. "_Channel __9 __Saturday __Mystery __Theater_. _Woman __in __Green_, _Terror __By __Night, __Hound __of __the __Baskervilles_. From twelve to six. And _Creature_ _Feature_ later on—_Dracula_."

"Oh, that's a good movie." He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, nuzzling her ear. "Something nice and scary, make you climb into my lap… I was just thinking… at last. The Sherlock Holmes triple feature we missed at the Nuart," he teased.

She turned and grinned up at him, tossing the remote onto a pillow. "We missed a lot of things at the Nuart."

"True…" He traced kisses along the neckline of her t-shirt, brushing his tongue lightly on her skin. "But we _didn__'__t_ miss a lot of _other_ things."

"Mmmmh…" She started unbuttoning his shirt. "I wish you'd wear t-shirts," she grumbled. "So much easier to get off."

He grinned at her double entendre. "What did you just say?"

She replayed her words and gave him a lopsided grin. "Donald Mallard, I swear you will take 'good morning' and make it absolutely… improper."

"Im.. _proper_?" He gave her his best lewd look.

"Exceedingly."

"Are you objecting?" She had finished unbuttoning his shirt and was pulling it from his arms.

"Whadda you think?" The shirt was unceremoniously dropped to the floor.

He laughed as she removed his undershirt and tossed it aside. "You may be a great cook, but your housekeeping skills are lacking, darling."

She stopped and cocked her head. "You want me to hang 'em up?" She moved to get off the couch.

"Hell, no." He made quick work of removing her brilliantly colored t-shirt, smirking as he discovered she was not wearing a bra. "Oooh, planning ahead?" he teased, scooping her breasts into his hands and raining welcoming kisses over them.

"Uh-huh… 'cause I love it when you do—oh, that," she gasped as he gently suckled at a stiffening nipple. She stroked his hair encouragingly—not that he needed any persuasion; she had warm, full breasts and he loved to kiss and caress them. Oh, hell, he loved to touch her entire body—but there was something… "Oh… sweet," she breathed when he cradled one breast and flicked his tongue around and around the pebbled flesh. Yes. Sweet was the word. Loving and comforting and arousing and… sweet. She slid a hand down the front of his pants, gently stroking his erection.

He sucked in a breath, the cool air on her wet skin making her gasp. He moved up, pulling her into a heady kiss, his tongue caressing places he knew so well (but wanted to know even better). "That feels great," he murmured against her lips.

"I can tell." She slipped open the button and slowly ran the zipper down. She slid her hand inside and feathered her fingers over his length, brushing over the tip. "Like velvet…" She nipped his lower lip. "'ey, Ducky?" she said in a pretty good Eliza Dolittle.

"Yes…?" He was concentrating more on the tender touches she was giving him than on her thespian abilities.

"Oi ain't wearin' no knickers," she whispered. "Oh, hello!" she chuckled as he swelled in her light grasp. "That got your attention!"

"And how," he growled. While she worked at slipping his pants and shorts down his legs, he fought with the brass button and stubborn zipper on her cutoffs. _Damn! __This__—__won__'__t__—__go__—__!_ He consigned the entire Levi Strauss Company to hell twice over. Laughing, Elizabeth pulled away and stood up. He kicked aside the last of his clothing and she forced the zipper down to the point where she could shinny out of the shorts, her breasts bouncing and bobbling with the effort. Donald couldn't help but grin at the sight.

"Okay, dammit, I guess these shorts got too small over the summer," she half-laughed, half-snapped in irritation.

"Oh, baby, they may be a pain to get off—" he laughed as she kicked a foot and the shorts literally went flying across the room. They landed on Robbie, dozing quietly by the patio door, who awoke with a yelp and tore outside.

"Whoops!" Elizabeth laughed guiltily.

Donald roared with laughter. "But they sure looked great when you had them on!" he finally finished. He pulled her roughly to him, kissing her hard. "All nice and tight and curvy." He slid his hands down and squeezed her buttocks for emphasis.

"Mmm…" She wriggled against him. "Maybe I won't toss them in the rag bag, then. After I fix that zipper."

"Agreed." He kissed her, slow and deep, shifting his hips and rubbing his erection against her. God, he'd wanted this all week and had been afraid that they'd never have the chance to make love again before he had to return home. The dorm was out—he swore there was an estrogen-triggered alarm built into the stairwell doors—and as tempting as it was to break down an ask Tish if they could borrow Gene's house for the weekend he just couldn't bring himself to that point. God bless whomever the hell it was who was retiring in San Diego.

"Want to go swimming?" she asked as he nipped his way down her throat.

He stopped in mid-nibble. "What?"

"Well… I hear that making love in a pool is really a kick. Kind of zero-G, like in outer space, all floating and relaxed."

He was actually intrigued. And a little unsettled. "Now?"

She grinned wickedly. "Why not?"

"Where do you get these ideas?" he laughed. He allowed her to take his hand, leading him toward the patio. "Ealasaid, the neighbors—"

"Won't see a thing. I've been in their house, Shirley Ryan and I went to school together, used to sleep over at each other's all the time. You can't see one inch of our yard, their house is too far back and there are too many trees. Same across the street." She led him outside. "Would I risk the vice squad raiding us?"

"Mmmmh… no, I guess not."

She ran to the edge of the pool and leaped in, then floated languidly in the center, arms waving on the surface in a 'come here' motion. No way in hell was he duplicating her maneuver or he'd be singing soprano. He slid over the edge of the ladder and paddled over to her. "Come here often?" she teased.

"Every chance I get." He wrapped his arms around her, grinning as she encircled him with her legs.

"Mmmmh," she purred. "This is great."

He had to agree. Just being in the pool, swimming, had a spacey, floating quality. This was even better. "Wonder if they'll have married astronauts, see what it's like having sex in space."

"Can we volunteer?" She wriggled against him as he thrust slowly in and out. "God, Donald… your cock feels so good—" She laughed at his surprised, even shocked, look. "I noticed that you, ah, liked it when a couple of words slipped out last weekend…"

He rocked his hips. "_Slipped_ _out_?"

"Well…"

He leaned forward to nibble her ear. "I seem to recall someone snuggling up against me and this wee, small voice whispering in my ear, describing in minute detail about the next time she was going to suck me. Now, if that wasn't you…"

She moved her hips close then away, back and forth, teasing. "You know darn well it was. You caught me in an error ten minutes later!"

"But it was a wonderful error." He met her lazy rhythm. "And for the record…" He kissed the hollow of her throat. "I _love_ it when you talk naughty."

/ / /

"No, we both will have a rather disgusting shade of green if we don't."

"But I'd much rather play in the shower with you." Donald gave her his best suggestive wink as he took the shampoo from her.

"Well…" She grinned. "_After_ we both wash our hair." She looked around. "Actually, this has a lot more room than the shower in the bathtub, so… why don't I wash my hair and come back and… join you?"

"I'll be waiting."

/ / /

"Okay… it's not being in water. Playing in the pool was lovely but we didn't get results like _that_." Still breathing hard, Elizabeth snuggled against his chest.

Donald rearranged the pillows, putting the two of them into more of a sitting position. "Maybe it's… standing up?" He shook his head. "No, no—that can't be it."

Elizabeth laughed. "Oh yeah. Sliding door on the balcony. Sunrise."

"Scared the hell out of those chipmunks when I lost my balance."

"I'm just really, really glad Gene and Tish didn't come running in to make sure we were okay."

"Or worse."

"Or worse," she agreed. "Well… whatever it is, I vote we keep trying to track it down. Although I don't think I can deal with that _every_ time we make love. I think too many times in a row and I'll die of a heart attack."

"Well, don't do that," he teased.

"I'll try not to," she said drily. "But I'll tell you… it would have been handy this week."

"Oh?" That certainly piqued his interest. She ducked her head and suddenly looked shy. "Oh… come on. You can tell me."

"It's just gotten… really hard." She rolled her eyes. "No… not that…" She laughed as he looked down toward his hips. "It's just that… when I met you… you didn't even kiss me for a week."

"And it took great effort not to, I'll have you know."

"So at night I'd dream about you, wondering if your hair felt as soft as it looked—" She smiled up at him. "It does."

"Go on," he encouraged. This was interesting—and endearing, a sweet comedown from the almost crazed lovemaking they'd just had down the hall.

"And you have this sweet smile, sometimes a little shy… and I'd think, 'oh, I wonder what it's like to kiss him, I think he's probably a wonderful kisser…'" She rubbed her cheek against his chest. "Then… we went out… and, oh, yes. I was right. God, I just wanted to sit on that breakwater forever."

"So did I."

"Then I dreamed of how it felt to have you hold me, to kiss you, and… my thoughts grew more daring."

"Daring?"

"_Very_ daring. Oh, I barely slept, I'd lie awake and dream of you caressing me, holding me, how it would feel… and oh, my, I was getting so turned on… And every time we'd go out, it would be just a little further, sometimes there would be these flickers of an orgasm from you touching me and petting me and I'd come home and _God_, it would be even more frustrating that night, that week… I tried, boy did I try, but I just couldn't get myself as far as you could." She closed her eyes. "That first time, downstairs… All week I thought, 'how did I get to be so lucky, I'm going to marry this man who makes my body sing.' And all week I dreamed of you—I'd touch myself but I was thinking of you. I felt your hands on me, felt you kiss me, and now I dreamed, I wondered… what would it be like to finally make love with this beautiful, beautiful man?" She stroked his chest. "I wanted you so desperately… I was scheming and plotting, trying to figure out a way of getting over to Scotland for the rest of the summer. I—" She stared at her fingers combing through the hair on his chest. "I mean… I'm on the pill—"

"I know."

"It's not that big a deal anymore, almost every—" she broke off. "You know?" She looked at him in astonishment.

"I saw them… in your guitar case. When we were packing for Napa."

"Ah." She nodded slowly. "Then… why did you still try to talk me out of it that night after dinner?"

"I didn't so much try to talk you out of it… I just… I knew you were _prepared_." He ran a fingertip over her cheek. "I just wanted to make sure you were _ready_."

She laughed. "Was I?"

"Oh… _yeah_."

"Well, considering that Tish started dropping, ah, hints after our first date…"

"Wait a—Tish _instigated_ your discussions?"

"She just let me know that if I had any questions beyond the basic birds and bees that she was there. So we… talked. Often." She laughed. "Of course, after she almost walked in on us, the next day she said, 'Now I _know_ you've got better questions!'"

"Did you?"

"Heck, yeah." She patted his chest. "Lots and lots of questions. Daddy even commented that it was so sweet to see us pulling together like sisters should before Tish gets married."

"And if he knew what the topic was, he'd kill me."

"Please. This is 1969. I think I was the last virgin on the block over fifteen."

"Oh, they start late in America?" he teased.

"Donald!" She smacked him on the arm and he made a great show of being grievously wounded. "Actually, considering some of the parties the cops have busted up here, I might have to drop that to fourteen. Or thirteen."

"Yoikes."

"It's a brave new world, baby." She cuddled in his arms, rubbing his chest. "It's just… a little maddening, you can make me come so hard I feel like I'm going to explode from pleasure—and I can't even come close on my own. Well… close… but in comparison, oh…!"

"Practice," he breathed in her ear. "Sex is like any art. Practice. I think it would be _great_… to come back to you after how long it is that we're apart, and have you whisper in my ear, 'Donald… I have some new ways I want you to touch me.'" He fluttered his fingers over her bare arm, enjoying her tiny shiver. "I love to learn new ways to please you."

"It won't be whiny or demanding… if I say, 'I want you to do _this_…?'"

"God, no." He combed a hand through her hair, gently pressing her head to his chest. "Our first night together, later on that night… you were trying to figure out what you had done, what I had enjoyed the most when you sucked me."

She smiled. "I remember."

"You were trying to ask without asking… finally I just told you _everything_, 'Oh, honey, I love it when you kiss the head of my cock or when you lick me—'" She gently grasped him, lightly stroking the ridge on the underside. "Oh, yeah. Right there. Did it bother you that I told you what I enjoyed, or later when you told me to, ah, direct the action?" She shook her head, eyes locked on his. Her eyes were glittering, her pupils wide; she was getting enormously aroused again by talking, by remembering. "Why would it bother me, then? I want to know how to make you feel good and whether I find out by accident or you tell me… it's all fine."

She smiled. "Okay."

He cupped her cheek and drew her up for a deep kiss. "What would be good?" he whispered. He kissed her again, probing. "I know you want something, I know you _need_ something, right now…" Another slow, hungry kiss while his hand stroked her quivering abdomen. "What do you want, what do you want me to do? _Tell_ _me_…"

She was breathing hard and almost looked scared of her own arousal. "Lick me," she finally whispered.

He drew her tongue into his mouth, sucking rhythmically while his fingers lightly teased the soft curls of hair below. "Tell me," he begged. "Say it again, tell me more, tell me everything you want…"

"Oh, God," she groaned as his fingers slipped back and into her. "Lick me, please… _please_, lick me and make me come, make me come again and again and then I want _you_, make it slow, make it forever, God, make it last forever, I want you inside of me _forever_…"

Only the last would be a tall order. Other than that… He rolled them over slightly. "God, I could look at you like that for the rest of time." He stared down at her, her arms thrown wide on the bed as if to embrace him, her breasts flushed, nipples hard points. _Oh__… __a __camera__…_ He gently drew one of her knees up, helping it fall to the side. "Some women…" He kissed her knee. "Are so shy…" He moved over and drew up her other knee, kissing it in turn. God… he could smell her arousal, the beautiful mix from their lovemaking, and it was just incredible. "They don't want their lovers…" He kissed a trail up her thighs, alternating from side to side. "To see them naked." He moved up slowly, covering every inch of skin with kisses, building her excitement. "Somewhere they learned… to be ashamed…" He rubbed his cheek against her soft skin. "And women should be _proud_. A woman's body is a beautiful, beautiful thing… and yours, the most beautiful of all." He let his parted lips barely touch the tips of her pubic hairs, tiny drops of water from the shower wetting his skin. He could feel her holding her breath in anticipation. He brushed the tip of his tongue to the cleft at the edge of her mound and was rewarded by a sharp gasp of pleasure. Very slowly, very gently, he traced a light line over the contours, her small cries of enjoyment filling his ears. Like filling a cup from an eyedropper he wanted his touches to arouse her slowly as his words had. When she had reached the point where she was shaking under his gentle grasp, he reached up and took the tip of her clitoris between his lips, nipping softly.

She almost shot off the bed with an inarticulate cry. He loved playing with words with her, getting her so aroused that the slightest touch was all that was needed. He smiled to himself; _hmm__—__I __wonder __if __I __could __make __her __come __just __by __talking__…_ It was an idea for later. For now… He followed her cues like a dancer, his tongue moving slowly here, quickly there, a thrust as deeply as he could manage into her warm, moist vagina, then quick flicks over the swelling point of her clitoris. Her back arched and she pulled at the bedding, crying, "Jesus, Donald—_oh_ _my_ _God_!" as she climaxed. He gave her only a minute or two to start coming down before he renewed his attack, urging her over and over into a wild release. Her cries of pleasure, the trembling flesh beneath his mouth, the sweet scent… he couldn't remember a partner before where he'd flat-out enjoyed pleasuring her quite so much. And, of course, there would never be another after her; it would only get better from here.

He could tell from the way she reached toward him that it was time for the dance to change tempo. He took the moment to kiss his way up her body, grinning as she quickly curled her legs around him. She wanted it slow—and apparently wanted him deep in her body as well. No objections…

She sucked in a slow, shuddering breath as he entered her, holding tight to his shoulders. "Oh, God…" She was actually crying, tears pouring down her temples and into her still-wet hair—but she was smiling, a look of pure pleasure on her face. "Donald, you feel _so-oooooh_… !"

He almost laughed as her words were lost as he thrust into her, pressing in his full length each time. He preferred making love slowly, gently, easy and deep strokes joining their bodies, especially after he'd come once or twice and was in better control. But he particularly loved watching the tide flow over her—a slow, building crest of pleasure… then a look of peace and utter contentment, transforming to another sweet, gradual arousal—over and over as he loved her, each time just a little bit higher… He followed her escalating pace, enjoying as her moans and gasps of pleasure became actual words, delightfully randy, downright dirty words sometimes begging, sometimes demanding…

Damn, was it a turn on.

After, he lay curled next to her, pressed close, his head pillowed on her chest. "Mmmmh…" She combed through his damp hair, the slow, repetitive motion relaxing him even further. "I'm going to fall asleep if you keep doing that."

She laughed softly. "I don't mind. I'm kind of thinking along the same path. But… I do need to go check on dinner. That pot roast has been untended for—ha, for hours."

"You have been a trifle occupied, no?"

"A trifle." She kissed him. "I'll be right back." His stomach chose right then to rumble faintly. "Well," she laughed at his faint blush, "dinner isn't for quite a while… how about a snack before we nap?"

"I won't say no," he said ruefully.

She slipped from the bed and pulled on a terrycloth pool cover up. "Here." She tossed him a large white robe.

"I don't think Robbie will care if we come downstairs naked," Donald said, slipping on the robe nonetheless. "He certainly didn't mind when we went upstairs in that state."

"No… but running around naked in the kitchen is not always a happy thought. Just because we aren't frying bacon—"

"Ah. Point taken." He couldn't help but smile as they bounded down the stairs. _Dinner __cooking __in __the __kitchen, __dog __snoring __on __the __couch, __making __love __all __afternoon __with __the __wife__… __how __domestic __can __you __get?_

_God, I love it._

"That smells wonderful," he said when she removed the lid from the pot. "All right, _everything_ you cook smells wonderful."

Elizabeth grinned. "Way to a man's heart…"

"You've certainly won mine."

"And this is an experiment. I noticed that you like mushrooms, soooo I added a bunch to the pot roast. Hope it comes out okay," she said doubtfully.

"Ealasaid, the smell alone is making me crazy. Do we have to wait…?"

"It won't be done until five. At the earliest. More like seven. It'll come out so tender, all you have to do is cross your eyes and it'll fall apart."

"That will prove interesting."

"Something just to tide us over… grilled ham and cheese? With sliced pears?"

"Sounds fine." Anything _fast_ sounded fine. _Nothing __like __three __hours __sleep __and __an __afternoon __of __really __good __sex __to __make __you __want __to __sleep __for __a __week._ Back upstairs twenty minutes later, he worked at making a dent in that week. Cuddled together under the soft coverlet, he snuggled up to her like nesting spoons in a drawer, dropping a kiss to her cheek as he started to doze off.

"G'night, sweetie," she murmured. She moved his hand up to cup her breast.

"Mmh," was the best reply he could manage before falling deeply asleep.

/ / /

"_Mmh_…" Donald smiled and rubbed against the pillow. It smelled just like Elizabeth and went perfectly with his not-yet-faded dream. Between a good imagination and very detailed memories of the weekend before, it wasn't hard to let his dreams wander down particularly delightful paths. Damn, it felt so real. _I __don__'__t __want __to __wake __up__… _He let out a deep sigh.

_Um… I **am** awake._

He cracked open an eye and peered down—and was met by a mischievous grin. "I _love_ your alarm clock."

She continued to gently kiss and caress him. "I was trying to see how long I could go before you really woke up."

"Oh?"

"Only made it six minutes. But now I don't have to be so cautious," she said happily. She slowly lowered her head until his entire penis was buried in her mouth. He released a shuddering sigh as she drew back gradually, sucking hard as she went.

He watched her love him slowly, gently for what seemed like forever. She was in no rush to see him erect; she didn't view it as a chore to be finished quickly. Instead, she seemed to be enjoying it almost as much as he was. No—not seemed to be. She was. She had said enough, done enough—and, like now, initiated enough that he knew her enjoyment wasn't a put on.

He moaned as she flicked her tongue over the ridge just below the head of his cock. "Right there," he encouraged. "Yes… right there, just like that." No question now, he was nice and stiff, and she was making deep, throaty noises of arousal as she quickened her attentions. He shifted his hips. "You want to be on top?"

She gave him little nibbling kisses all around and all the way up, then swirled her tongue around and around the dark tip. She rested her cheek against the hard shaft and gave him an almost feral smile. "I already am."

"Oh… oh, _yes_," he groaned as she returned to his straining erection. He knew he'd never had to beg or plead for her to give him oral sex—he hadn't even had to _ask_, yet, though he was sure if he even hinted she'd be delighted to do so. And if having a partner be so willing and happy to pleasure him had been barely in his dreams, having one who actually seemed keen on taking him all the way home was beyond his wildest dreams. But here she was, in the flesh, the most loving and giving woman he could have imagined.

She was making that funny not-quite-a-squeak noise that he knew from before—she wasn't just enjoying this, she was _really_ enjoying this. She moaned as his thrusts shortened and quickened… he gasped and his vision actually grayed out for a moment when he climaxed, a hot, languid stream instead of the rapid bursts of earlier. Elizabeth continued to caress him until he was spent and lay limp in her hands. She gently laid his organ aside, pillowing her cheek on his thigh. "Wow…" he finally managed. He resisted the temptation to smack his head. _"__Wow?__" __That__'__s __all __you __can __say __is__ "__**wow**__?__" __The __best __blow __job __you__'__ve __had __in __your __life__… __and __all __you __can __say __is__ "__wow?__" __You __are __pathetic!_

It seemed to be adequate for Elizabeth. "I agree," she murmured, a lazy smile playing over her lips. He hooked fingers with her and tugged gently; she followed his urging and moved up to snuggle against his side, her head tucked up next to his. "Am I… weird?" she whispered.

Donald blinked, startled. "Of course not," he said automatically. "Why do you think…?"

"Now… now was beautiful. When I suck you, especially when you stay and come in my mouth, I just get these waves of, I don't know, it's this… wonderful energy, like a tide, from your whole body. But… Soon after we've made love…" Her voice was still the softest whisper. "That's—that's when I particularly like to love on you. I like how _you_ taste, you're _you_… and I love it. But just after we make love, I can taste me, I can taste both of us, it's like I'm licking both of us and… yeah… I sound weird," she trailed off.

He pulled back and turned to kiss her. "You haven't noticed that I enjoy the exact same thing? Down at the beach, the first time I kissed you, I just _knew_ when it finally came to be it would be amazing with you. Our hearts are made for each other, our bodies are made for each other, I could feel that when I held you back then. I knew it. And when I kiss you, when I lick you and please you I taste love. Pure love. And when it's after we've made love—it's twice over." He quirked a smile. "You haven't noticed that I get hard right then? Really hard, really fast?" He ran a finger over her lips, making her smile faintly. "Baby, that is one hell of a turn on I discovered with you." He put his lips next to her ear. "It's like I'm licking you… and sucking my own cock at the same time," he whispered.

She drew in a shaky breath. "Oh… oh, yeah…" she sighed, her words trembling. "That's it exactly."

"So, I don't think you're weird." He moved to look her in the eye. "More like… wonderful." He kissed her softly. "And special."

"It's like there's a… special… color in the rainbow—and we're the only ones who can see it."

He grinned. "That's a lovely way to put it."

She stared off reflectively. "I wonder what it would be like…"

"What?"

"You said… it was like you were licking me and yourself at the same time. Just thinking what it would be like if people could…" She frowned. "Would have been handy this week for me."

He grinned. "Ah, but then I'd be redundant." He gave her a look of exaggerated sadness. "Totally unnecessary."

"Never." She kissed him, hard.

"And women would rule the world."

"Oh?"

"Please. Every male since we crawled out of the primordial stew has envied dogs for just that one ability. All the men on the planet would sit around all day, all night, doing _nothing_ but—" He looked at her expectantly as she burst into laughter. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"No, you're probably right," she laughed. "But what makes you think women wouldn't do the same thing?"

"You're smart enough to stop before you work yourselves into a coma."

"World domination through self-provided oral sex. Hmm. There's a science fiction novel about a future society in there, somewhere, I'm sure of it."

"I have a feeling Heinlein has already written it."

"I take it you've read _Stranger __in __a __Strange __Land_?"

"Ah—yes."

"Let's just call it educational and change the subject."

"Okay… new subject." He gave her the best starving orphan eyes he could manage. "When is dinner?"

She laughed and glanced at the clock. "Oh, now, I guess."

"Thank heavens. The smell is so good it's driving me to distraction."

"Distraction, hunh?" She wrapped her arms more tightly about him. "Distraction…?"

"No… no, no," he almost whimpered. "Don't make me choose!"

She gave him a quick kiss. "I'll let you off the hook this time." She swung her legs off the bed and grabbed her cover up from earlier.

He took it from her hands and made a show of being a gentleman and helping her into it. "And I will think all through dinner about how to adequately express my thanks."

She grinned and handed him his robe. "Oh… I'm sure you'll think of something."

/ / /

"Aw. We missed Sherlock Holmes." Elizabeth juggled her plate of pie and the remote control. "At least there's _Outer_ _Limits_ until _Creature_ _Feature_ starts."

"What?" He looked shocked. "You mean we could have been watching _Outer_ _Limits_ every Saturday night instead of going out?"

She shot him a look. "I could give back everything from the past Saturdays—but I don't think they'll repeat the shows just for you."

"Give back, eh?"

"M-hmm. Let's see… at least a thousand kisses, I'd say."

"Oh, at the very least."

She leaned over and kissed him very chastely. "That's one." Another decorous kiss. "Two…" Her plate tipped. "Oh, damn!" The thick syrup from the pie had found the gap down the front of her cover up and dripped a thin line from her chest to her stomach. "Great. No napkins. Prior planning pays."

"Hold up." Donald set his plate on the coffee table and carefully leaned over. "Mmmm…" He gave a gentle lick to the bottom of the trail of spiced sweet apple. "Tastes even better at body temperature." He grasped her waist, pushing aside her skimpy robe, and traced a slow trail up her body, ending with a slow, deep kiss. "That was fun."

She was breathing hard. "Boy, was it." She kept her eyes locked on his while she carefully swiped a finger through the apple syrup. "Oops." She dribbled it across her left breast. "How clumsy of me." The rest dripped over her right breast.

"Tsk-tsk. Very." Slow, swirling licks. "There. Nice… and clean…"

She was getting extremely aroused by this game. (So was he, for that matter.) The next dab decorated an already quite stiff nipple. "Oh, my." He closed his lips over the slightly sticky nub and sucked hard, tongue flicking around and around. "Oh!" she gasped. "Oh, oh, my!" She swirled syrup over her chest and stomach, wriggling in his light grasp as he flicked his tongue over her sticky skin.

He stripped off his robe and spread it on the couch. "Lie down." He mangled both slices of pie digging out every bit of syrup as he decorated her body, licking up every drop he painted on her. By the time he got to even considering what would have normally been his first thought, he'd already made her come twice, sweet, slow shudders that she said felt like they started deep in her belly and stretched outward in all directions like the rays of the sun. He was almost jealous.

She saw that they were down to shredded pastry and apple slices. "Oh, God, _please_ go get the rest of the stupid pie!" she gasped. He was glad she suggested it; she had made it, after all.

He tread carefully at first, worried that spices she had used in cooking might be hurtful or even dangerous to her delicate flesh. (They had never covered cunnilingus and cinnamon in med school, oddly enough.) Elizabeth said it tingled a little, but not unpleasantly so. Quite the opposite. And it gave an interesting twist to loving her. She especially enjoyed when he placed tiny droplets at the tip of her clitoris and sucked them off—at least, he assumed from her squeaks and squeals that she was enjoying herself.

"Save some—it's my turn, next," she panted as he gave up all pretense of playing games and grasped her hips, angling his erection into her.

She had definitely had fun. He was surrounded by her, deliciously hot and wet and so wonderfully tight. "Anything you want."

"Hmm… anything?"

"Anything," he said recklessly.

Her eyes glittered with amusement. "I'll remember that."

/ / / / /

**June 23, 1969**

Towel about his waist and hair still wet from the shower, Donald came up behind Elizabeth and slipped his arms around her, sliding his hands up beneath her t-shirt. "Mmm… smells wonderful…"

"Blueberry… coffeecake," she managed. "Breakfast." She caught a breath as his fingers trailed over her stomach.

"Actually… I mean you." He lightly nipped the curve of her neck as he moved up to stroke the underside of her breasts. "Hmm… I do believe the bottom is more sensitive than the top," he teased.

She gasped slightly. "Oh?" She swallowed hard. "I think you may be right…"

"I know I am… Oh, I just love how you quiver…"

She actually moaned. "Oh, Jesus. That's it."

"That's it… what?"

She turned around and planted a long kiss on his lips. "_Quiver_. God, Donald, you have the sexiest voice, and that is the absolute biggest turn-on word I've _ever_ heard you say." She kissed him again, breathing hard.

"Oh, really?" he grinned. "Hmm…" He pulled her close against his body. "I wonder if I could make you come just by talking to you…"

She reached up to nibble his earlobe, causing him to shiver. "What makes you think you haven't?"

The coffeecake ended up burned to a cinder.

/ / /

Suntan lotion. The scent of ocean water carried on the breeze. Hot dogs being roasted in a firepit upwind of where they lay. Donald knew that decades later any of these smells would immediately conjure up the memory of this day—he sprawled on a striped beach towel, Elizabeth lying facedown on a flowered towel a foot or so away, working on evening out her tan, listening to the competing rock and roll broadcasts from four different radios set to four different stations and floating in and out of a doze under the comfortably hot sun.

He smiled, albeit sadly, when Elizabeth slipped her hand into his and twined their fingers together. _A __week. __Only __one __more __week__… _"Run away with me," he whispered. His words were lost in the crash of the waves. He turned to look at her—hair swept away so her back would tan, eyes closed and a faint smile on her face. So sweet, so angelic, yet behind that keen intelligence, a wicked wit, passion and gentle affection. _Run __away __with __me__… __we__'__ll __hide __from __the __rest __of __the __world. __Be __my __wife, __be __my __lover, __be __my __anchor__… __Be __the __mother __of __my __children, __be __my __friend__… __Run __away __with __me. __Run __away __with __me, __now._

He saw her lips move, read the 'I love you' even though he couldn't hear the words. Her thumb absently rubbed the back of his hand then stilled as she fell back asleep.

A loud splashing made him look up. A trio of riders plodded along the edge of the surf, trying vainly to talk over the waves as their mounts picked their way over the firm wet sand. The lead horse was in high form, swishing a luxurious silvery tale and dancing left and right as she proceeded. The light glinted off her bridle, the glare looking like… Donald sucked in a faint breath. Like a unicorn's horn… He suddenly remembered the day he'd met Elizabeth, sleeping by the pool and the queer dream he'd had. The unicorn. The beach. The old crone—

The horse made a shrieking neigh of fear; Elizabeth sat bolt upright at the noise. "What the—"

The other horses capered about in the foam, unsettled by the lead horse suddenly rearing back. A young boy had run up, playfully throwing a hank of seaweed at the horse and causing the animal to start. The rider was making a valiant attempt at controlling the horse, but the child stood rooted in fear while his parents—

_Where the hell were his parents?_

Donald was by the child's side before the thought was fully formed. 78 stone weight plus startled fear—the boy would be trampled to death. No question. He snatched the child in mid-step, running past the dodging horse and tumbling them both into the water.

A split-second behind him, Elizabeth fell into the water with them. "Are you all right?"

"I think we are."

She patted at the child who was doing the pre-sob gasping of toddlers. "Hey, hey, you're okay, kiddo, you're fine… where's your mommy?"

Hand shaking, he pointed over her shoulder.

Behind them, the rider had brought her horse under control and dismounted, tossing the reins to one of the others and stumbling to them. "Kevin!" She fell to her knees and gathered him into a hug.

Elizabeth looked shocked. "Mrs. Leonard?"

Mrs. Leonard looked up, surprised. "Liz—Lizzie? Oh, my God, Lizzie—you saved Kevin!" Elizabeth was pulled into a hug.

"No, no, ma'am—it was my fiancé, Donald—"

She grabbed Donald's hand in a death grip. "Thank you. _Thank __you_."

"I'm just glad… we were here." _Where __the __hell __were _**_you_**_?_

She shook her head as if in reply. "He wanted to have lunch on the beach. He came down with Claire, we were bringing lunch for them and going for a short ride… where the hell is Claire?"

Kevin pointed up the coastline. "Nanny Claire is at the lifeguard's. Can I have lunch now?"

Mrs. Leonard forced a smile. "Of course, baby."

"I'm not a baby! I'm four!" he yelled.

"You're right," she swiftly corrected. "And, yes, I'll get your lunch in just a moment. I need to talk to Nanny Claire first."

"She'll come back. She always comes back."

His mother smiled with a frozen face while Donald exchanged a look with Elizabeth. "Does she go to the lifeguard's often, sweetie?" Mrs. Leonard asked.

"Mm-hmm. She lets me pick shells an' stuff." His lower lip trembled. "I didn't mean to scare Share-zade, I just wanted to show her the seaweed I got. I'm sorry…" He began to cry.

"I think Scheherazade is sorry _she_ scared _you._ But you need to remember the rules about horses, no matter where you are."

Kevin nodded, still sniffling. His mother looked up the coastline, eyes narrowed. If she were lucky, Nanny Claire would only get her walking papers.

"Mrs. Leonard…? Donald and I have our lunch here, Kevin is welcome to join us and then we can take him home afterward. That way you can…" Elizabeth hesitated. "Take care of any… _errands_… you need to deal with."

"I wanna have lunch with Bizzy!" The tears were gone.

Donald laughed. "Smart boy."

"Are you sure—" Mrs. Leonard started.

Elizabeth waved her hand. "We're sure."

"Are you still on Starstone?" Elizabeth nodded. "I'll call you after I… ah, before I come over."

"Hey, sport!" Donald and the boy were now sitting on the shore, gently pushed up by the waves. "Let's get this sand washed off, right?"

Kevin allowed Donald to pull him to a standing position. "You talk funny."

"Kevin!" his mother protested as she headed back to her horse.

"You see, Kevin," he said, helping the boy rinse off the sand without getting knocked over by the waves, "To you, I have an accent—because I'm from England." It didn't seem worth the detail that he had started off in Scotland. "Where I come from everyone sounds like I do." _Sort of. _"To us, you would have the accent because you would sound different."

"But… we look the same!" Kevin scampered after him.

"True. But depending upon where you live, where you grow up, how you speak will be different. For example, if I grew up in Australia, I'd sound like this, mate," he finished in a creditable Aussie accent. Kevin giggled.

"And if he grew up in Jaw-jah," Elizabeth said in a drawn-out Southern accent, "why—he'd sound jus' lahk Foghorn Leghorn!"

Kevin laughed as she fanned herself with her hand and batted her eyelashes. "You're silly, Bizzy."

"So are you. Give your mom a hug, she's going to pick you up at my place."

"Okey dokey."

"I take it you know Kevin," Donald teased while he unpacked their hamper and Elizabeth investigated the lunchbox Mrs. Leonard had pulled from the saddlebag.

"Yeah, baby sat him until they moved last year. Man, he's grown. I didn't even recognize him at first."

"But he certainly knows _you_."

"I taught him a lot of good songs. Hey, Kev!" she called as he ran up and flopped onto Donald's towel. (So much for washing off the sand.) "You still remember _Puff, the Magic Dragon_?"

"Puff! The magic draaaaagunnnnn! Lived! By the sea!" he sang (or, more accurately, yelled).

"Great!" she laughed as _and frolicked in the autumn mist _became _followed in the messy miss_. "We'll sing that back at my place for Donald—after lunch," she added quickly. "Let's see, what do you have here…"

Donald marveled at how Elizabeth handled this bundle of energy. He was up, down, here, there, all at the same time. He had more oomph than any five children he'd met and she kept after him with ease. "Maybe Mrs. Leonard should hire _you_ as his nanny." _You're going to be a great mother…_

She snorted. "I don't know which will be harder, mastering the soufflé or corralling Kevin."

They ate quickly (with Kevin there was no other way); Elizabeth had turned the leftover pot roast into pot roast sandwiches—which made Donald almost recoil until she pointed out there was little difference between that and a roast beef sandwich. (And they _were_ quite good.) Kevin had a peanut butter, banana and honey sandwich (requiring another dip in the ocean); Elizabeth willingly traded her bag of Fritos for his potato chips (then traded half the potato chips for half of Donald's Fritos, reminding him again that marriage was sharing). They all had apples (two red, one green) but Kevin stopped short when he saw the baggie of cookies Elizabeth pulled out.

"You made chocachip cookies?" He looked at his own bag of Oreos.

"How about this… chocolate chip cookies are really best with milk. So why don't we head back to my place and eat them there? There's a whole cookie jar full—"

"YEA!" She didn't have to say it twice.

The promise of seemingly unlimited cookies had Kevin running around like mad, gathering up all their trash and tossing it in the bin, even throwing away things others had left before them. ("I loathe beer, don't look at me," was Elizabeth's response to Donald's tease of, "Ealasaid! I never knew!" when Kevin walked past, carrying an empty bottle with the tips of his fingers, a disgusted look on his face.)

Kevin remembered Robbie (and vice versa); the wagging, slobbering collie actually distracted Kevin from the promise of cookies long enough for Elizabeth to hose herself down. "Gonna have sand in really rude places for a while," she cautioned Donald, handing him the hose. "Get the two of you de-sanded, I'll meet you in the kitchen."

Easier said than done. "It's cold!" Kevin howled when Donald tried to rinse him off. "I wanna play with Robbie!"

"Well, we can't go in the house until we've rinsed off the sand, and the cookies are in the house. Now, I don't know about you, but I love Elizabeth's chocolate chip cookies…" Donald patted his stomach and made "mmmmm" noises. "I could eat—gosh, probably the whole batch…"

Kevin's eyes widened and he grabbed the hose, holding it over his head. "You don't get 'em all!" he spluttered through the cascading water.

Before Mrs. Leonard could arrive, Dr. and Mrs. Stewart returned from their trip to San Diego. Julia was quietly fuming (apparently she had wanted to stay until nighttime); it had plainly been a _long_ drive.

"You remember Kevin Leonard, mom?" Elizabeth said smoothly, glossing over her parents' startled looks.

"Of course. Jamie is on the b-o-d at the club," she said. "They used to live down the street. His father is a partner at Sobel, McMaster, Leonard and Sitwell. Best divorce attorney in Southern California." When sober, she had excellent recall.

"Well, we all met up at the beach, and Kevin came back with us for cookies and milk."

Dr. Stewart had caught his daughter's look. "Excellent idea," he said heartily. "Let me get our bags in and we'll join you."

So they sat in the breakfast nook, shoulder to shoulder, munching cookies and drinking milk (Donald was shocked to see Julia _enjoying_ it), like a scene out of _Leave __it __to __Beaver_… as drawn by Picasso. Julia inquired politely about their weekend, saying Donald's name correctly three times; he told her he had joined Elizabeth for a lovely pot roast dinner and they had gone to the beach today, and were planning on an early movie that evening. (He was grateful he had tossed his bag in the trunk of the car, only leaving a change of clothes for after the beach.) Julia all but monopolized him in conversation; after a while, he had the creepy feeling she was hitting on him.

He almost shuddered.

No… she was still trying to make up for Robbie's tackle. That was all. Or she had turned over a new leaf, was trying to be accepting of the people her children planned to marry. (If Gene and Maddie were there, he could have more readily tested that theory.) Maybe she had had an epiphany while in San Diego.

Yeah. Right.

But she was actually nice—genuinely nice—to Kevin. With a start Donald realized that Julia related pretty well with small children; it was older children and adults where she fell down. While they were finishing up the cookies (the jar was now empty) the telephone rang. Dr. Stewart excused himself; though his voice was pitched low, Donald could hear occasional words. "No, no, he can stay as long as necessary…"

"Ducky is a funny name for a grownup."

"Well, it's a funny name for anyone. But my last name is Mallard, and a mallard is a type of a duck, and my first name is Donald—"

"Donald Duck!"

"Precisely. But if you think Ducky is a silly name to call me, you may use Donald. Or Don."

"Ducky's funny… but I kinda like it," Kevin said hesitantly.

"Then you go right ahead and call me Ducky," he grinned.

While Kevin leaned forward to snag another cookie, Elizabeth leaned back and mouthed, 'You are so great with kids!' at Donald. From her look, she was thinking something akin to what he had thought back at the beach. He grinned, imagining the two of them taking their own handful of children to the beach.

"Well, Kevin, it looks like you'll be staying with us for dinner," Dr. Stewart said, returning to the kitchen.

Elizabeth and Julia looked startled; Kevin—unsettled. "Um, okay," he said hesitantly.

"Your mom had some things come up that she has to take care of and you'd just be really, really bored. So I told her you could have dinner with us and maybe…" He looked over Kevin's head and gave Elizabeth and Donald a telling look. "Maybe… there could be a drive-in movie later on."

"Oh, wow!" Kevin yelled. "Beach _and_ movies? Oh, wow! Oh, _WOW_!"

"Daddy, I have a great idea—Donald and I can take Kevin to… MmmmmmmcDonald's for dinner? Then we could take him to the movies."

Kevin was rendered speechless, trembling with joy and anticipation.

"I think… we might have some of Dennys' old clothing packed away, it should fit you," Julia said. Her husband almost goggled at her. "We can't let him wander about in his bathing trunks," she huffed.

Donald exchanged shocked looks with Elizabeth as her mother headed for the garage. Dr. Stewart broke the silence. "Well. I'll, ah, look in the paper, see what's playing." He looked at Elizabeth. "You really don't mind seeing a kids movie?" he murmured.

She shrugged. "Disney isn't so bad."

Disney.

Donald shivered.

_Disney_.

The frightened horse on the sand, the flash of light that made it look like a unicorn. He remembered the rest of the dream—the crone on the sand, the poisoned apple, Ealasaid disappearing into the rain while the evil crone laughed in triumph.

Elizabeth looked past Donald, toward the door leading to the garage where her mother had gone. "Was that really my mother?" she whispered into his ear.

He stared at Elizabeth. _That__'__s __who __Julia __reminded __me __of __all __this __time. __The __old __witch__…_ "Yeah." He wasn't answering her question.

_This is **not** a good way to view your mother-in-law._

/ / /

Eating with Kevin was like eating with Dennys. He packed away two cheeseburgers (granted, they were smaller than the ones Elizabeth made at home, but still…), a large bag of French fries, a large orange soda—and wheedled Elizabeth out of a chocolate milkshake for dessert, claiming that since milkshakes were made from ice cream, it was the same thing as having ice cream for dessert.

"Flawless logic," Donald said, handing over the cup and a straw. This was on top of a sandwich, corn chips, two cans of grape juice, an apple, three glasses of milk and probably a dozen cookies… where the hell did this kid put it all?

As there were no films at drive-ins that Elizabeth deemed appropriate for children, they ended up at a nice little walk-in theatre showing _Ring __of __Bright __Water_. It was a pleasant little movie (where Kevin plowed through three-quarters of a bucket of buttered popcorn, a Hershey bar and another soda), but Donald was actually more interested in the theatre—originally a legitimate theatre or one created for both stage and film presentation, it was a glorious old building with Art Deco flourishes, dark wine red velvet curtains on the stage to cover the screen and stunning murals on the walls depicting golden-haired women riding massive seashells pulled by seahorses through the ocean. And it was across the street from Elizabeth's favorite candy store, allowing him to treat her to some special sweets for the movie.

By the time they returned home, Kevin was ready for round three (an evening of television with _his_ Bizzy and "Ducky") and was all set to pitch a royal fit when he discovered his mother waiting, chatting with Dr. Stewart and his wife. A promise that Elizabeth would call him as soon as he got home and tell him his very own, individual, personalized bedtime story over the telephone brought the tantrum down to a pouting lower lip.

"I appreciate you kids giving up your night out to take care of Kevin," Dr. Stewart said as they set up the Scrabble board. Instead of planting herself in the bar for the evening, Julia had (shock!) accompanied Mrs. Leonard back home and, after Kevin had been put to bed (with a quick story from Elizabeth), was keeping her company until her husband came home.

"He's a good kid. It sounded like there was a bad situation going on," Donald said, drawing his tiles.

"Very. You two were there on the beach—"

"He ran right in front of Scheherazade! That idiot nanny of his was nowhere to be seen—"

coughed delicately as he drew tiles. "She was, ah, occupied with the lifeguard."

"You don't abandon a little kid just to—"

__Please, ____don____'____t ____say ____it, ____please, ____don____'____t ____say ____it____…____!__

"Well… just to… well, you don't!"

"Oh, I agree," her father said. "Jamie fired her on the spot, told her to collect her things within the hour. That's when it turned ugly. When Claire came back to the house, it became physical, the police were called, she actually attacked Jamie—"

"Thank God Kevin was with us." Donald shook his head. Elizabeth reached over and squeezed his hand.

"Jamie didn't want things to escalate—she didn't press charges, though I'm sure Quinn will convince her to—she just waited with the police while Claire gathered her property, they escorted her away… but there's the possibility she had a duplicate key. So Julia—" he looked startled for a moment, mentioning his wife in such a positive light. "Julia is staying with Jamie until Quinn comes home. And the locksmith is on the way."

"Good." Elizabeth shook her head. "I just can't believe…" She sighed. "Daddy, I'm sorry, I'm really not in the mood to play."

"I understand, Lizzie." He glanced at the clock. "It's still fairly early—maybe you want to go down to the pier or something, hang out with people your own age for a couple of hours?" He pointed at Donald. "Just don't be late for your last week of clinic."

"No sir," he said with a smile, even though his insides twisted.

Last week of clinic.

Last week… with Elizabeth.

_/__/__/__/__/_

**June 28/29, 1969**

"Time flies." Eddie had his hands shoved in his pockets and was staring at the ground, leaning back against the trunk of the car.

Donald sighed and nodded. "The only reason I want to go home… is so that I can come back."

"Don…" Eddie pushed off from the car. "In five years I have never so totally, completely and absolutely agreed with you."

"Too bad Mandy isn't here."

Eddie shook his head and headed for the driveway. "We said good-bye last night." He stopped, still shaking his head slowly. "Don… she is just the most amazing woman I've ever met. She knew in elementary school—she was, what, eight?—that she wanted to be a doctor. That she wanted to specialize in oncology. Christ, I barely understood life and death at that age, let alone _cancer_." They crunched their way up to the front door. "And she plotted out what she'd need to do in school from there on out. Her mum's a nurse."

"Really?" Donald laughed. "Funny, I had the idea she was a school teacher."

"She's a pediatric nurse." Eddie winced. "I think that's where Mandy got the idea of specializing in pediatric oncology."

"Ah."

Eddie rang the doorbell. "I'd do anything for her," he said quietly.

_I__'__ll __bet __you __will,_ Donald thought, not unkindly, as Tish threw open the door much as she had the first time they'd come to the house.

This time she was dressed in a drop dead gorgeous jumpsuit in splashes of electric colors. With the high collar, long swooping sleeves and bell-bottom legs every inch of her body was covered, but the not-too-tight-to-be-vulgar fit made it one of the sexiest things he'd seen on anyone, even Tish (who could probably make a potato sack look sexy). "Oh, man." She sighed. "I miss you guys already." She reached out and grabbed a hand from each of them. "Come on, come in. Eat too much, get drunk off your asses and sober up mid-flight." As Eddie preceded them into the living room, she leaned over to Donald and whispered, "Maybe if you do that, you won't remember all of us bawling our eyes out."

Donald gave her hand a squeeze. "I'm going to miss you, Tish." And he was. She had gone from someone he felt quite guarded around to friend to ally. "You'll take care of Elizabeth for me, won't you?"

She looked him square in the eye. "If I have to lock her in the closet and throw away the key. You'd better hurry back for her. You can hang around California for two years just as well as you can Scotland, you know?"

"I know. I have… a few things to take care of, first." He gave her a kiss on the cheek. "But I'll be back. I promise."

He had expected a small gathering—just the family, the usual crowd, with Sassy added in (she was going to drive them to the airport and return their hired car). But it was a goodly-sized crowd; he recognized a number of people from his clinic and assumed those he didn't were from Eddie's. (Eddie's enthusiastic greetings showed he was correct.) In a way, this would be easier. The greater the number, the easier to lose yourself in aimless chitchat and ignore the shattering of your heart.

He wandered from group to group, nibbling hors d'oeuvres of every variety, often catching sight of Elizabeth as she flew in and out of the kitchen with bowls and trays. She gave him a kiss in passing several times; he could tell from her overly-bright laugh and forced smile that she was putting on a front for everyone else, hiding her own ache at their parting that came closer with each rapidly passing minute.

Two years…

"I wish there were some way you could stay."

Donald sighed. "So do I, sir." He accepted the glass, noting with surprise that it was Scotch on the rocks rather than Dr. Stewart's usually mild, mixed drink of some variety.

Dr. Stewart nodded toward the glass. "Seemed an appropriate sendoff for you boys. And… I think we have different ideas as to why you should stay." He looked over the top of his glasses and Donald couldn't help but smile faintly. "Mine is purely professional. Well… at least seventy-five percent. I have such glowing reports from everyone—patients, nurses, coworkers, other students… and especially Ramona Morton. God, I have visions of Mona flinging herself on the tarmac at LAX, trying to stop your plane."

"That's, ah, most complimentary, sir."

Dr. Stewart shook his head. "I hate to think what your leaving will do to Lizzie's cooking. I hear that a chef's emotions come through in the food…" He shuddered. "There's going to be a lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken at the table for the next couple of years…"

"Well… I'm hoping to come back here, to California, after my tour sir, so—"

He looked at him sharply. "Tour?"

Donald swallowed hard. It had been on his mind, something he'd toyed with briefly during school, but had thought long and hard about the past two months—particularly the past two weeks. "Yes, sir. I haven't heard anything to lead me to believe I shan't graduate next week… and I plan to sign on for a tour in Viet Nam." He quirked a smile. "I think they can find use for a surgeon." There. He'd said it. It was no longer just a nagging thought at two in the morning.

"Donald…" Dr. Stewart took him by the bicep and gently pulled him from the crowd. "My son… Dennys…" He bit his lip.

"I know," Donald said quietly. "And, sir… that's part of why I'm going. Why I _have_ to go. Tish said that Dennys went over with the hope that because he was there, maybe things might end a little earlier. Well… I'm going over with my own hope. That the young men who are trying to put an end to this… depravity… might have a better chance of coming home if I—and people like me—are over there to help them."

Dr. Stewart listened in silence and continued to stand, nodding slowly and not speaking. "I can't argue with that," he said slowly. "As a doctor, as a surgeon… I can't argue. But… you're family, Donald. I know it's two years down the pike, but in Lizzie's eyes, you're married."

Donald felt himself turning scarlet at the thought of just _how_ married Elizabeth considered them.

"Gene was a radioman on the Tulare for two years. Came through unscathed, thank God. Dennys… Dennys is getting better." He shook his head. "Sometimes the wounds you don't see are the worst," he said quietly. Donald nodded in agreement. "Donald… you're your own man. I'm not your father-in-law—yet—and I'm certainly not your father. I have no call to say, 'don't go.' I understand why you feel you should. I'm just asking you for the impossible." He smiled faintly. "Be careful."

"I'll certainly try, sir," Donald said slightly ruefully.

"And… drop the damn 'sir.' Your rotation ended last night, you may as well get used to calling me Andy." He sighed. "Or… Dad will be acceptable." He held up a wagging forefinger. "But not Pop."

"Oh, no, sir. I mean, Andy," Donald said quickly. Pop. Pop was a soda. And Dad… no, he'd stick with Andy.

"Have you told Lizzie?" He shook his head. "No, of course you haven't, she'd be bringing down the house if she knew." Donald flinched; he wasn't looking forward to telling her. "I won't think you less the man if you tell her in a letter."

Donald shook his head. "No. This is something I have to say face to face."

"Why don't you use my study. It's… quieter." _Soundproof_? "Good luck." Dr. Stewart grasped his arm and turned away, not before Donald heard him mutter, "…you'll need it."

/ / /

Her face was impassive. Stone.

No… stricken was a more accurate description.

Her hands were folded in her lap, ladylike. Genteel. He could tell from the whiteness of her fingers that each hand held on to the other with a death grip.

But she sat silently, listening to him state his case in a concise, logical manner. Who, what, when where… only one question was truly important: why?

_You saw what it did to Dennys… why would you risk that?  
><em>_You watch the news every day, count the number of dead… why would you risk that?  
><em>_You want us to be together forever… why would you risk that?_

_Why?_

"I told myself… that there were going to be times I'd have to stand tall. Hang tough. We're going to have to be apart for two years, I knew I'd have to—to 'soldier on—'" She tried to smile, but her lips trembled and she gave up. "I didn't think you'd—you'd be… soldiering…" She drew in a quavering breath. "Literally…" She closed her eyes and dropped her head, tears falling to the arch of her cheekbones and falling to her clenched hands. "I want… to be able… to be a—a supportive wife," she whispered. "But I can't. Donald, I can't. Not this. Please, don't ask me to laugh and smile, wish you well and—and send you away to possible death—"

He could barely hear the last word. He knelt next to her chair and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm not laughing," he said gently. "I'm not smiling." He could feel her shaking with silent sobs. "I can't even explain it to myself completely—how can I hope to explain it to you?"

"You… you have to go," she said dully. She pulled back and dragged the inside of her wrist across her cheeks. "It's something… you _have_ to do."

He nodded. "Yes."

She stared at him for the longest time. Her eyes, the beautiful, mysterious, dark turquoise he loved to stare into, glittereing with tears. He could almost hear her working through her grief over his decision, watching the play of emotions in her eyes and over her face over what felt like hours.

_Denial. This isn't happening. It's a bad dream, it's just a nightmare…_

_Anger. __No. You can't go. I won't let you go. There are others who can go in your place!_

_Bargaining. __I'll leave. I'll leave now, I can go back to Scotland with you, even if we still have to wait we can wait together—if we're together, you won't go, will you…?_

_Depression. Oh, God. You're going. You're going, and I can't stop you. I love you—you could die there, thousands of miles away, and all my love won't stop that. We just found each other—and now we're going to lose each other…_

She drew in a long, slow breath and let it out again… then another… then a third time, her trembling lessening with each claming breath. Finally she nodded very slowly.

_Acceptance._

"Okay." She closed her eyes for a long moment then opened them again, staring into his face. "I still don't like it… but…" She nodded slowly. "Okay."

He leaned over and kissed her gently. "Thank you… for understanding."

"You will come back…" Her voice was so small. "…won't you?"

It was like a child, asking to believe in Santa Claus and scared there might not be one. "Yes. I will." He gently thumbed away the remnants of her tears, knowing it was a rash promise. "I have you to come back to."

She gave him a small, silent smile in answer and pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder. They stayed that way, huddled together, until Dr. Stewart came in to tell them it was time. He discretely waited in the living room for Donald to come back out.

"Come back to me, husband." She tried to make it an order, but her voice quavered a bit. "I love you so much…"

"Ealasaid…" He kissed her, over and over. "I love you… I love you, and I swear to you—"

"No. No." She held up her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. "I don't want to hear anything else. I… can't hear anything else." Her eyes were swimming in tears. "Kiss me… tell me you love me… the last words I want to hear you say to me are, 'I love you.'"

He slowly followed her request, kissing her as gently as he had the very first time, then drawing her hand up to kiss where the catch of her bracelet lay against her wrist. "I love you."

/ / /

Eddie had staved off his loneliness by a strong application of alcohol and slept through the flight to New York. Donald stared out the window, watching the blackness creep into dawn as they approached JFK; _we __should __have __had __the __Moody __Blues __for __a __soundtrack_, he thought wistfully. A short layover, then they were back in the air, perky stewardesses offering all manner of things for breakfast. Donald exchanged a look with the now awake and mercifully not hung over Eddie; they reached a silent mutual accord and, as one, said, "Coffee and toast is fine, thank you." Several hours and twice as many cups of coffee later, they were offered lunch for those still on New York time, dinner for those who had set their minds ahead to London; another silent discussion and Eddie smiled up for the both of them and said they were fine with coffee, thank you.

When they touched down in Heathrow, Donald glanced at his watch. _Sunday __morning. __Almost __eleven __in __California._ He closed his eyes, picturing Elizabeth flitting about the kitchen, laughing, cooking what she called 'brunch'…

_Two years._

His mother was waiting in the terminal and had a homey, if firm, hug for Donald and a polite kiss on the cheek for Eddie, whom she had known for the past five years of University. "I can't wait to hear all about it! Did you boys enjoy yourselves?"

They exchanged a glance and Donald almost laughed; if anyone had told him three months ago that he and Edward Langley would be in such accord he'd've packed them off to the psychiatrist. But they'd each fallen in love with the woman they planned to spend their lifetime with… and been forced to leave her behind. It was an odd friendship forged by mutual heartache—but it was a friendship nonetheless. "Yes, Mother. It was—" He glanced at Eddie again. "It was very nice."

She reached up to touch his cheek. Phone calls and letters had been far scarcer than he had promised—but she still knew everything. "I'm so glad." Her smile included Eddie. "For both of you."

As they stepped out of luggage claim and onto the pavement Donald looked around him and sighed. Home… and not home. He thought of silky blonde hair spilling through his fingers, warm lips pressed against his and arms holding him close and blinked back sudden tears. That was home… or would be, in two years. His mother uttered a barely audible curse and hurried them toward the car park and he realized the heavy mist was threatening to turn into a light rain.

As he stood by the front passenger door he turned and stared at the jet in the distance—taking off, climbing into the night sky, heading for… where? France? Italy? Or back to New York, then on to Los Angeles, back to Elizabeth?

The rain began to fall, hiding the tears that tracked down his cheeks. _Coming __home__… __to __rain._

_How fitting._

* * *

><p>16<p> 


	17. Deceptive Cadence

**Chapter Seventeen: Deceptive Cadence**

_**Deceptive ****Cadence:** A  
>chord progression that<br>seems to lead to resolving itself  
>on the final chord; but does not.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>September 19, 2009<strong>

After decades of keeping his mother's accounts straight, a task started in his secondary school days, Ducky felt that he was more than minimally competent at the computations needed in daily life.

His checkbook entries were clean, crisp and precise, the balance accurate to the penny.

He could calculate a tip without resorting to 'eh, three times the tax, that's close enough' arithmetic.

Even after over a quarter of a century in the States, he could still convert between Celsius and Fahrenheit without needing paper and pen (or counting on his fingers).

While he wasn't going to win Mensa membership by his mathematics skills, he was certainly conversant with the ability needed to, say, compute a person's age by simple subtraction.

Especially when a photograph bore a bright orange time and date stamp in the corner, making the subtraction remainder painfully obvious.

He wandered back to the living room lost in a fog. The afghan he'd spread over Elizabeth was tossed aside, the couch unoccupied. He barely noticed. _Impossible. __I __can__'__t __believe __it._ He went over the numbers again and again, coming to the same answer every time.

"Donald? Would you like some tea?" Her voice came from the kitchen.

"Yes, thank you," he said automatically.

"Would you get that, please? My hands are wet," she called when the phone jangled softly.

_If __a __man __answers, __hang __up,_ he thought grimly. Unsure if it should be 'Hamilton,' 'Cameron' or 'Hamilton and Cameron residence,' he stuck with the tried and true greeting: "Hello?"

"Ducky?"

"Yes—oh, Tori!" He smiled in relief.

"Ro called and told me she'd brought in reinforcements. How goes the battle?"

He forced his attention to the conversation at hand. "Not badly. Elizabeth is in the kitchen, making fresh tea. She had a decent lunch—not what she should be up to, but considering the past week, acceptable. And is on the right path from here on out, I think."

She let out a deep breath. "Donald Mallard, you are a miracle worker."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"I would. Will you be joining us for dinner? Please say yes," she added before he could try to decline. "You usually visit your mother on Sunday?"

"Yes—"

"Or… do you have plans this evening?" she said hesitantly. "I'm sorry, here I am planning your weekend when you came to our rescue!"

He laughed. "I don't mind. And… yes. I'd be delighted."

"Good. Now, we've been eating late because I'm still trying to sort out the scheduling with Aunt Lizzie being out; will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. What time do you expect to be home?"

"Barring any disasters, an hour and a half?" Half-past seven. "I have everything at home for dinner, don't need to stop at the market—"

"Tori… why don't I cook dinner tonight? That last thing you need to do is cook dinner after a long day at work, especially with unexpected company on your doorstep."

"You stopped being company a week ago," she said briskly. "And I can't ask you—"

"You aren't. I'm volunteering. I'm a pretty fair cook," he said, wheedling. Cooking dinner would be a wonderful distraction—and it would give him something to think about. Something _else_ to think about. "Besides, it would get your aunt engaged in the kitchen—I know she won't sit still in the living room. The last time she saw me cook, she had to hover over my every move to make sure it was done correctly and that I ended with the same number of fingers I started out with."

Tori laughed, the sound making him think of a soft wind chime. "Tempting…"

"Give in. You deserve a night off."

"You've convinced me. I was going to bring home dessert from the store—"

"Now, that, I won't decline. I've put on ten pounds since Ziva started bringing in tea goodies!"

"I love a satisfied customer," she laughed. "Wonderful. I'll see you and Aunt Lizzie at seven-thirty. Oh—whatever you make, we need leftovers for Ro. When she gets home from work, she's starving."

"Consider it done." They bid one another farewell and hung up. _Good. __If __I__'__m __cooking, __I __can__'__t __kill __myself. __Or __her. __Of __course, __there __are __knives __in __the __kitchen__… _He stared at a photograph of Elizabeth flat on the floor, playing with all three grandchildren and creating an elaborate city made of blocks. _Were __you __that __stupid? __Or __just __so __busy __thinking __with __the __small __brain __you __didn__'__t __pay __attention?_

_Why didn't I ask?_

Forty-year-old memories bubbled up, not as bittersweet as when she had come to mind in years past. Now all he felt was the warm, heady feeling of falling in love literally at first sight, the electricity of their first kiss, the pure magic of their first night—

He closed his eyes and groaned softly, more than a bit of anger behind the noise. _But __who __has __engendered __your __wrath, __Mallard?_ he thought. _She? __Or __you?_

_Why didn't I ask?_

_Why didn't she tell me?_

He clenched his fist, drawing a shaky breath. _No. __She__'__s __been __through __too __much. __You __can__'__t __go __storming __into __the __kitchen __bellowing __and __scolding. __It __would __be __as __though __Walter __had __come __back __from __the __dead._

They were both at fault. But it was in the past; no need to drag it up now.

Wait—

He cocked his head. Just because his math was correct with the facts at hand did not mean the _facts_ he used were correct. _I __won__'__t __believe __it__… __until __she __tells __me. __Irrefutable __evidence._

"Who was it?"

"Tori," he called back, heading toward the kitchen. "Officially inviting me to dinner—which I am going to cook." _Think __about __it __later. __Much __later._

Elizabeth turned from the teapot with an aghast look. "She didn't—"

"No, she didn't. I did," he said firmly, opening the refrigerator and peering inside.

"Donald, you can't—" she broke off. "Can you?" she finished hesitantly.

He peered around the door. "As Abigail often says, 'O ye of little faith.' Watch… and learn." Thank God for the Food Network and years of taking care of his mother. Chicken… cream… about half a bottle of zinfandel, if it was still good…

"Donald, you don't have to do this. I am perfectly capable of cooking with one hand—"

Another look around the door. "Really?" He was just a shade too polite to truly be scathing. "If that is the case… why did Rowena feel the need to call me this morning? Why have you not been eating for a week? Why did I need to threaten you with kidnapping and restraints to get you to eat just some damned chicken soup?"

Her gaze dropped and he immediately felt like a heel.

He stepped over, allowing the refrigerator to shut on its own. "Elizabeth… I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." They had made tentative steps toward each other and he had thrown them out the door. He gently cupped her face in his hands. "I came here to try and help you and here I am castigating you at every turn."

She smiled faintly. "Too many letters for Scrabble."

"True." He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. "What's wrong?" he asked softly. "I know there's something wrong, I don't care if it's been forty years—I know those eyes. Is there something I can do to help? If I _can_… then, please, may I?"

She drew in a slow, shaky breath and her eyes shone with a film of tears. "I don't know," she finally said. "I—I mean I _know_… but I… don't… have the right words. I feel like I'm this tiny kite in the middle of a hurricane, bouncing about, no idea where to go… But… when I finally get my mind sorted out, yes—I think—" she shook her head. "No. I _know_—that you will be able to help."

He smiled down at her. "Don't worry. It's not a limited time offer." Yes, he was sure of the answer to his question. And he had already forgiven her the deception, even if he had a hard time forgiving himself. But he still wanted to hear the words from her. "May I kiss you?"

She managed a faint smile. "You didn't ask earlier."

"I am remembering my manners. Better late than never."

"In that case—yes."

More than old friends—something less than old lovers. Given the short time they'd been together, not surprising. Maybe you can't go home again… but you might be able to live next door. Kissing her was sweet and familiar, like putting on a favorite cardigan at the beginning of fall. He allowed his treacherous arms to slip around her, holding her gently to him, ever mindful of her arm. "Elizabeth?" He kept his voice just slightly teasing.

"Mmh?"

"How old are you?"

"Donald. That's not a question you should ever ask a lady."

"Well… sometimes you should." _I __should __have, __that__'__s __for __damned __sure._ "I remember, when I came out to California, it was just turned May."

"Mm-hmm. You came to dinner the day after May Day."

"You'd had a birthday the month before."

"Happens every year."

"And I remember, you had graduated early, in December."

This time there was a short hesitation before her answer. "Yes."

"I assumed it was your undergraduate degree." He was proud of how even he was keeping his voice, this discussion. None of the infamous Ducky Mallard temper.

Another silence. "No…" she said reluctantly.

"Elizabeth—how old were you?"

She sighed. "Donald, it's forty years ago, why—"

"Elizabeth… _How_ _old_ _were_ _you_?"

Her lips tightened for the briefest moment. "Sixteen."

He had known the answer before she said it. Rowena and Nana, forty years apart; quick math had led him to the number. After the initial shock, rolling it around in his head for a while, he was sure he could maintain a cool head while discussing this. After all, he was the one who had wronged her, she should be angry with him, not the other way around.

Like hell he wasn't angry.

"Why didn't you tell me? My God, you should have told me! I can't believe—sixteen! Dear God, I can't believe—!" He began to pace around the kitchen. "Jesus, Elizabeth! I thought you were twenty-one, twenty-two—you'd _graduated_, I was sure it had to be college—"

"Donald, Tish was only twenty-one and she was the middle child!"

"I didn't know that! Good God, six years older was bad enough—"

"Donald—" She pushed away from the counter, clearly irritated, and stepped in front of him in mid-circle. "If I had told you, what would you have done?"

"What?"

"What would you have done? I'll tell you—nothing. You sure as hell wouldn't have slept with me—you wouldn't have gone out to dinner with me, you wouldn't have _kissed_ me, you wouldn't have even _flirted_ with me—no. Nothing! Hell, you probably wouldn't have even held my hand!" Her temper was in higher form than his.

His mouth worked with repressed anger. She was right on all scores.

"And don't pretend that you would have gone out and been the perfect gentleman that you were capable of being because we both know that's a load of crap. You would have been sweet and kind and polite because I was Dr. Stewart's little girl but romantically you wouldn't have given me the time of day," she snapped.

"Elizabeth—it wasn't just four, five, six, years—I was _eleven_ _years_ older than you—almost twelve! What if Tori had brought home some 27-year-old post-graduate cretin for her sixteenth birthday?" He was starting to yell. Ratchet it back a notch.

"I'd've had him gelded," she shot back.

"See?"

"That's the difference between being a parent and being so damned crazy in love with a man that you can't see straight!"

Parent. _Parent_. "Wait. Your father—your father obviously knew your age and he _had_ to have known mine…" He looked at her with a mixture of horror and astonishment. "And he let me date you?" Dear God, it was a good thing Dr. Stewart had never twigged to them sleeping together or he'd've been a corpse for all these years.

She took a steadying breath and held up her hands. "Let's… take a step back. Literally. We got together in 1969. My parents were married in—" She searched her memory. "1946. Back then, it was common for a couple to have a difference in ages like that. If women went off to college—if!—it was to become a teacher. Maybe a nurse. Doctor… not so much. Lawyer… same thing. For the most part, they stayed home, learned to cook and sew and clean and do fluffy things like paint and play tennis."

"We're not talking Regency England, Elizabeth."

"Of course not. They didn't play much tennis then." He rolled his eyes—but laughed, his anger dampened somewhat. "I'm just saying… the girls stayed home, the boys went off to college—unless mom and dad _sent_ her off to college to catch a husband. It was expected that a girl would get married by nineteen, twenty—if she was in college, she could slide to twenty-five, but that was pushing it. No girl wanted to be an old maid. So after college, the boys are now worthy of courting the little princesses who stayed home—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, maybe they worked in an office a year or two after school—but now the princes have come home with their sheepskins and are looking for someone to keep the hearth and home. So we have my father, who was 29—and my mother, who was just _barely_ 17. Her parents had to sign for her to get married because she was underage, and they did it. Gladly. As the kids say—_do_ _the_ _math_." Her tone was sharp.

Two years. Dr. Stewart had wanted them to wait two years—until Elizabeth had gained her simple majority. He still felt like he was second cousin to a child molester.

"If you have been bumming around the beach, looking for driftwood and seashells—yeah, I think Dad would have had plenty of things to say about that. But you'd been in school your whole life. You don't just get a medical degree over the summer. It took time. It took commitment and stability, and he knew that better than anyone else. He liked you. A lot. He approved of you, of us." She looked a bit abashed. "Okay, he didn't know that we were sleeping together. He ignored Tish and Gene and Maddie and Den, for that matter. He couldn't believe it when you… disappeared."

He glanced up.

"I know you didn't. Now. Well, I found out when my mother finally did her _True __Confessions_ number. But until then… all we really had to go on, all _I_ really had to go on was what she told us. We had no idea what my mother had done and she was _so_ sympathetic to me. 'Oh, you poor dear, I can't believe he was such a snake, I thought he was a nice boy…' Dad even tried to reach you through Edinburgh but they wouldn't release your home address. Privacy."

"Wait. Hold up. Your father must have thought the same thing, that I had lied to you and left you behind… yet he tried to _find_ me?"

"I told you. He liked you, I think he didn't want to believe it."

Ducky had a sudden feeling like he was in a sideways version of _Raiders __of __the __Lost __Ark_. Tony could probably give him the exact quote. "But why, why would he try to find me?"

"I _told_ you," she repeated. "For one thing, he liked you. He really, really like you and he just couldn't believe he had been so wrong—" She broke off and turned aside.

"That's one thing."

"One is enough."

"No—the way you said, 'for one thing'—what else was there?"

She remained silent for a long time. He stepped around to face her. "Elizabeth…?"

Her eyes were closed, her eyelids quivering lightly. "I loved you," she said quietly. "You walked out the door, went to the airport… and my heart went with you. Every day I ached for you. I wanted to see you, touch you, hear you—even just a letter. I couldn't imagine living without you and as time passed, when I… lost you… I didn't want to. Live." She took a deep breath. "When Tish died, I was the only one who could understand. Without Gene, she couldn't survive. Not even for Tori."

He felt his hands grow cold. "I thought… she died of heart failure. It sounded odd, given her age—but not impossible," he said hesitantly. He remembered Tori's comment that her mother had died of a broken heart.

"Nowadays, they'd see the signs, have better treatment. But then…? She was so depressed she could barely function. Mom moved her and Tori back home, something she would have never allowed if she'd been sane. She was on antidepressants, all sorts of medications, but it didn't help. She slept all the time, she didn't eat—"

Sound familiar?

"Mom had a housekeeper to do the things she… couldn't do." She smiled grimly. "She was a full blown alcoholic by then. And one day Tish saw Mom dancing around the house with Tori saying things like, 'I can be your new mommy, you'll be my perfect little princess'—"

"Oh my God." Ducky knew full well what Julia did with 'perfect' children. His heart tightened.

"Yeah, that kind of made a mark. Tish called me, begged me to come out. I flew out that moment. She told me she was trying to pull herself together, but would I please take Tori, just for a while…? She knew Mom would go ballistic, so we went to a lawyer on the sly. He drew up custody papers, where I would have total guardianship until Tish asked for her back. And… in the event of her death… I was granted full, total, irrevocable custody. By myself. I was…" She glanced at her arm. "I had a broken arm. Plenty of bruises. Tish knew what had been going on, but back then—I had the mindset that I deserved it. She looked at me and said, 'I know you'll protect her, even if you can't protect yourself.' And I did. She gave me a kick in the pants… and I needed it. We snuck Tori out the next day, I flew back… and I told Walter if he came near either of us, I'd kill him. He left that night."

"Good." He could barely get the word out.

"I figured it would be a couple of months—a year at the most. Tish called the next day, Mom had gone off on her like a nuclear bomb. But the lawyer was a court appointed special advocate for abused children and had gotten the papers pushed through that day. Mom didn't have a shaky foot to stand on." Her face stilled. "A week later… Tish was dead."

He searched her face. "You don't think… your mother…?"

"Mom? No, no, oh, no. Not even Mom could… no." She stared at the tile floor. "I just think that Tish knew in the back of her mind that she wasn't going to be here much longer. And she had to protect—her little girl."

Ducky swallowed hard. "Did she commit suicide?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I don't think it was conscious on her part, you know, 'I'm going to take these pills and wash them down with this vodka and kill myself.' I think it wasn't so much that she wanted to die—but that she didn't want to be alive anymore."

"Passive suicide."

She nodded. "Dad was friends with the medical examiner, got him to list the cause of death as heart failure—which was true—and leave off the mention of the overdose and ditch the toxicology report. That way Tori wouldn't grow up with that hanging over her head."

He slipped his arms around her, letting her rest her head against him. "I am so sorry. So sorry." He rested his cheek against the top of her head. "Tish… Tori… everything. I should have been there—"

She shook her head tiredly. "You couldn't have known…" She sighed. "Please… forgive me."

"For what?" He smiled. "For not telling me you were sixteen? Oh, sweetheart… I should have asked. Assumptions—"

"No, no, I—I mean… for not believing in you. For believing what my mother was saying, for—for not saying the hell with all of this and going to England and finding you—"

"Elizabeth…! How in the world would you have done that?"

"I would have. I should have!"

He lightly stroked her hair. "There is nothing to forgive. Nothing. I tried to find you, after I came back from Viet Nam—your father wasn't at USC any more, you'd moved from the house in Palos Verdes, I thought, God, if I could just see you, talk to you, I was sure we could work things out…"

"I'm so sorry."

He hugged her carefully. "Never again."

She looked up. "What?"

He didn't quote her Leroy Jethro Gibbs' opinion on apologies; it would have been too much a slap in the face. "Sorry. No more 'sorry.' What happened—happened. As Tori said, your mother 'sank us like a U-boat.' _You_ did nothing wrong. _I _did nothing wrong." He brushed a finger over her lips. "Well, except for—" he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

It worked. She thumped him lightly on the chest. "Hey. I don't ever want to hear, 'oh my God, I slept with a sixteen year old virgin' again."

He winced. "God, it sounds even worse when you add the word 'virgin' to the list."

She turned and looked him square in the eye. "And I _liked_ it," she said firmly. "I seem to recall in Napa that you tried to talk me out of it. A couple of times!"

"Well, I didn't want you to regret anything the next morning."

"I didn't." She gave him a gentle touch on the cheek. "I don't." She stared into his eyes for a long moment. "When I heard your voice at the store… my God, it was like the past forty years never happened. It was 1969 all over again, and I was hearing the voice of the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

He _had_ been the reason for her accident. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to cause you to fall—"

"Hey. You just said 'no more sorry.' That goes the same for you."

He smiled. "Fair enough." He looked at her bracelet. "I'm surprised you kept it after all these years. You should have hated me."

"There's a world of difference between hate and hurt, Donald. No matter how hurt I was—and, thank you, Mom, I was hurt—I never, ever hated you. When my mother finally confessed what she had done, oh… part of me wanted so much to find you, to tell you… I've spent twenty-five years wondering if I did the right thing not looking for you, thinking you had hated me as a fickle flirt."

"Elizabeth… Tori said you were thinking of turning the store over to her, moving back to California." He took a deep breath, "Are you still considering that?"

She stared at him for a long moment. "No."

Thank God. "When your arm is healed…" He smiled, a little shyly, and touched the bracelet on her right wrist. "May I put it back where it belongs?"

"I'd like that." Her voice was soft. "Very much." She rested her head on his shoulder. "Donald…?"

"Mmh?"

"What's for dinner?"

/ / / / /

**September 21, 2009**

"So." Abby gave Ducky a smug smile and perched on the corner of his desk. "I have a surprise for you."

"Animal, mineral or vegetable?" he asked idly, scanning the list on the computer for the file he wanted.

"Animal," she responded promptly.

"Living or dead?"

"Oh, definitely living." She swung her legs back and forth.

He smiled. "About five-ten, auburn hair, bit of a smart alec, answers to 'Ro'—and likes my cooking?"

"You peeked!"

He laughed and looked around. "Where is she?"

"Upstairs, getting her ugly picture laminated on plastic. I swear, nobody gets a good ID picture." She glanced at the card clipped to his pocket. "Okay, you're an exception."

"You're very sweet." He stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Do you need me to help collect her?"

"Well… you are kinda family, I hear…"

"Let me finish this update—I'll meet you upstairs in, say, five minutes?"

"Perfect." She slid from the desk, gave him a one-armed bone-crushing hug and danced out the door.

Five minutes became ten. It would have been five, but he spent the first few minutes trying to make the cursor move where he wanted it, with an irritating lack of success, finally realizing that the mouse was not lit and had become detached from the back of the tower. "Blasted… can't even… Computers!" At least he hadn't called McGee for technical assistance; that would have been truly mortifying.

By the time he got upstairs, Abby was already in the bullpen, eagerly introducing Rowena to any and all who happened by. For her part, Rowena was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Actually, we have met," Ziva was saying as Ducky slipped up to the group. "I have seen you several times at the tea room."

"Oh, you like tea?" DiNozzo said in an overly bright voice that made Ducky pay closer attention. "I _love_ tea." He was looking at her like a starving man would look at a steak dinner.

Rowena was oblivious. "My grandmother owns the tea room; I help out sometimes."

"That's sweet of you, give an old lady a hand—"

He wasn't sure if it was Rowena, Abby or Ziva (or all three of them) but someone snickered. Loudly. "I'll be kind, Agent DiNozzo," Rowena laughed. "I won't tell her you said that."

Abby gave him an evil grin. "I will."

DiNozzo realized he'd walked straight into a grave _faux pas_. "Abby, Abby—you know I didn't mean it like that—"

Rowena turned to give Abby a look and caught sight of Ducky. "Ducky!"

Abby clomped over and threw her arms around him. "Thank you! Thank you for finding me the coolest intern ever!"

"The coolest, eh?" he laughed, disentangling himself only to be caught up in a second hug, this time from Rowena.

"Ducky, Abby has the most incredible lab—I don't want to go home!"

DiNozzo grinned, obviously thinking that was a grand idea.

"Ducky, talking to her is like—"

"—talking to myself," Rowena finished. "I'm not the tallest kid in class, now!"

"Only by a quarter of an inch," Abby reminded her.

"Which I give you with my blessings."

"And I am _so_ getting you into decent shoes."

"Oh, Ducky, Abby has the greatest music—"

He saw Gibbs, eyes focused on a file on his desk, slowly shake his head.

"Thank you for recommending me—"

"Thank you for vouching for her—"

"Oh, yeah, thank you, Ducky," he heard DiNozzo breathe, followed by a, "Jeez, Tony" from McGee.

Abby turned and grabbed Rowena's hands. "Now that you've met everyone that's biological and sentient, well, everyone that really matters, anyway, you need to meet everyone that's mechanical and kind of sentient, and I need to introduce you so that you get off on your best foot, sometimes they can be a little shy or cranky with strangers—" She was still babbling as she pulled an eager Rowena toward the hallway.

"So you, ah, recommended her for the internship, Ducky?" DiNozzo asked. He gave Ducky his best smile. "That was really nice of you."

He didn't bite. "Anthony…" He motioned for DiNozzo to follow him across the floor to an empty area. "Rowena is the granddaughter of a very old and dear friend. If you continue your attentions… your health and life expectancy will be greatly compromised."

"Ducky—"

"Rowena… is very much like a granddaughter to me," he said grimly. "Additionally, she is sixteen years old." DiNozzo actually flinched. "Precisely. If any young man twice her age were to pay untoward attention to her—"

"HUA, Ducky. Heard, understood—"

"And acknowledged." He patted DiNozzo's shoulder… very firmly. "I trust that if you see anyone else—"

"Absolutely. Totally. Completely. You can count on me."

"Good. Good." As he passed behind the cubicles, he heard Ziva and McGee conferring.

"What is Ducky saying to Tony?"

"Dunno. Can't tell from here."

There was a snort from their team leader. "Probably threatening to have him gelded," Gibbs said mildly. "The girl's jailbait."

He continued toward the elevator, grinning. _Gelding. __It __must __be __a__ '__parenting __thing__'…_

* * *

><p>17<p> 


	18. Scherzando Interlude

**Chapter Eighteen: Scherzando Interlude**

_**Scherzando:** Playfully.  
><em>_**Interlude:** Piece of instrumental  
>music played between scenes<br>in a play or opera._

* * *

><p><strong>September 26, 2009<strong>

"Donald—do you love me?"

Ducky held the receiver out and stared at it. Elizabeth's voice was plaintive. "Of course I do," he said almost automatically. "My dear, what's wrong?"

She whimpered faintly. "Save me."

Jesus Christ, what was happening? "I'll be right there," he promised. "The police—call the police—"

"Police?" she repeated in baffled tones. "Why would I call the police?"

He stopped in mid-motion of jamming on a shoe. "Ah—the words 'save me' ring a bell?"

"Donald—it's Abby and Ro. They're driving me batshit crazy," she said grimly.

"Abigail and Rowena?"

"God love her, Abby is helping Ro study but it's like walking through the junior's department at Macy's!" she hissed. "I'm going nuts!"

"Leave the house," he said reasonably. "They're certainly trustworthy."

"I can't drive with a gimpy arm," she said gloomily. "Not unless I want to stay in first gear the whole trip."

"Ah. Well—I'd be delighted to rescue you, your majesty," he teased.

"How soon can you get here?"

"Half hour?"

He heard her walk across the floor and open a door. A sudden barrage of music blasted from the receiver and he grinned. He actually enjoyed much of Abby's music, and he had gotten her interested in more classical pieces in turn—but not everyone had such eclectic taste. "My ears are melting…!"

"I'll try for twenty minutes," he promised.

/ / /

Only the décor was different. Bone-jarring music filled the air and empty Caf-pow cans littered the floor; add a mass spectrometer and a couple of microscopes and it would pass for Abby's lab. He couldn't hear the words, but Abby was sitting cross-legged on the floor, animatedly explaining something to a rapt Rowena, chattering a mile a minute and hands waving like semaphores. In mid-gesture she caught sight of him. "Duckman!"

Rowena looked up. "Ducky!" she squealed. He couldn't help but grin—and stumbled back when she tackled him in a hug. "Are you here for dinner? Abby's staying for dinner. It's my turn to cook, I'm making souvlaki and couscous and Greek salad and spanakopita, I make the best spanakopita you've ever had, well, not as good as Midi, but she taught me, so it's almost as good, you're staying for dinner, though, right?"

He grasped her shoulders. "No. More. Caf-pows," he intoned.

"I haven't even had two! I'm just excited to see you!"

"I'm flattered," he laughed, reaching up to pat her on the head.

"So you're staying for dinner?"

"It sounds awesome," Abby encouraged.

"Thank you. Yes. I will be delighted to _return_ for dinner—I'm taking your grandmother out for the day."

She grinned wickedly. "Oh, _really_? Where are you going? What are you doing?"

"None of your beeswax," Elizabeth said tartly, coming out of the library.

"You give _me_ the third degree—"

"And _you_ are barely sixteen," her grandmother reminded her. She caught Ducky's look and her eyes narrowed. Sixteen. Heh-heh-heh. Her look was plain: _do __not __even __**think **__of __going __there._

He leaned over the back of the couch and scooped up a jewel case. "Oh, this is new."

"Just got it this week," Abby said. "Want a copy?"

"Certainly. Thank you."

It was hard to tell who was more shocked, Rowena or Elizabeth. "_You_… _like_… Android Lust?" Rowena breathed.

"Yes," he said with a laugh. "Abby took me to one of their concerts a few years ago. I must confess, I prefer the CDs. The crowd was a bit, mmmh, unruly."

"Only til the cops showed up," Abby grinned.

"That is _so_ _cool_!" Rowena said in awed tones.

Elizabeth was of a different opinion. "Traitor," she muttered.

"Dinner at seven!" Rowena yelled as they left.

Elizabeth stood on the porch and stared at him. "You _like_ that?" she said in disbelief, gesturing toward the faint strains of music.

"I am a man of catholic tastes," he said with a smile.

"I thought you were Anglican," she shot back.

He merely shook his head and escorted her down the walkway.

/ / /

"Somehow… this isn't what I had in mind when I realized we'd spend the afternoon together."

"Oh, please. You were a book freak forty years ago, I doubt that's changed."

He looked at her over the top of his glasses. "In three hours," he said with excessive politeness, "we've gone to four yard sales, two church jumbles and a library sale."

"Yeah, I'm a little out of practice," she said, deliberately misunderstanding him.

"Elizabeth, I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"Well…" she hedged.

He wagged a finger at her. "If you're going to be up for Thanksgiving—"

"God, when did you become such a nag?"

"You just bring out the best in me," he smiled. "Now—where would you like to lunch?" He could see the wheels turning. "No, you may not go to the store," he said quickly.

"Donald!"

"Tori said you're banned for at _least_ six weeks. And I do not want to engender her wrath."

"Smart man," she muttered sourly. "She's a tartar."

"And I'm sure she learned from the best," he said in a similar tone.

She glowered at him. "Good grief, why did I ever fall in love with you?"

He fluttered his eyelids at her. "My sweet, winsome ways?"

Her mouth worked for a moment then she gave in and laughed until she was gasping for breath. "You are in_sane_!"

"Mmmh, yes, I believe we established that rather early in our relationship. Back to the point: lunch?"

"Ro is going all out for dinner; we'd better come home with decent appetites. I'm fine with a soup and salad place?"

"Soup and salad it is."

Elizabeth rubbed her hands together. "Then we can hit more book sales."

Ducky shook his head. "You know, there's only so much room in the boot," he reminded her.

"Next time we take my van."

"Hah. I have it on good authority that only _you_ can drive your van."

She looked around her admiringly. "Well, if you can coax this chic vehicle to perform, I think you can handle Francine."

"Francine. You named your car… Francine?"

"She's an old Ford Econoline I converted for the store. Ford… Francine. Alliteration. It kind of fit." She shrugged. "Plus, she's a real bitch."

Ducky slipped on the clutch and the Morgan jerked a bit, causing Elizabeth to look at him in surprise. "Sorry. You just… caught me unawares." He resisted the temptation to apologize to the car.

"I've had four teenagers go through my house," she said cheerfully. "I know all the bad words."

He grinned. "My dear… you knew all the bad words when _you_ were a—"

She reached over and put her fingers on his lips. "Hush. You just… hush." She nodded decisively. "I'm a grandmother. You shouldn't say such things about me."

"Truth hurts?" he said innocently.

"Hush."

/ / /

Rowena covered her eyes with one hand and held out the other like a mystic. "Don't tell me. Let me guess." She swayed back and forth, moaning dramatically. "I can see it… I can see it… it's coming to me…" She gasped. "She dragged you to a bunch of yard sales!"

"_You_ are a _brat_," her grandmother said, sticking her tongue out for good measure.

"Oooh, cheeky," Ro returned with a grin. "I've taught you well."

"At least you admit who started it."

Ducky grinned at the easy banter. This was so different from his upbringing—and quite different from Elizabeth's, he was sure. But the warmth and affection was so strong he could almost see it in the air.

"Oh, cool!" Rowena was digging in the bags of books he had lugged in. "Where'd you find this?"

Elizabeth peered around her. "Um… I think that was the library sale."

Ducky shook his head. "Jumble sale."

Elizabeth snapped her fingers. "Right. The Lutheran Church in Emporia."

Ducky looked at the book from Rowena's other side. "You know, that area was settled quite heavily by Czechs and Slovaks back in the late 1800s and early 1900s so it's not surprising—"

Rowena stopped perusing the battered Czechoslovakian cookie cookbook and looked down at him. "Is there… anything… you don't know?" Her voice was strong with admiration, with just the hint of a gentle tease.

He smiled up at her. "How to make spanakopita."

She bumped her forehead against his affectionately. "I'll teach you."

Abby looked up from her own exploration of the treasures Elizabeth had found. "Me, too?" she said hopefully.

"Heck, yeah!" Rowena threw her arms wide. "Come on in the kitchen, everybody!"

/ / /

Elizabeth sat safely on a stool in the corner, lost in tears of laughter. "Oh, God, it's like Abbot and Costello meet Julia Child," she gasped.

Rowena was an enthusiastic cook, but was rather lacking in her abilities to teach. "Okay, sauté the onions—no, no, lay out the phyllo dough—oh, shoot, I need to chop the spinach—keep the phyllo damp—!" She and Ducky and Abby ran around the kitchen like they were greyhounds after a mechanical rabbit that had gone haywire until Ducky finally held up his hands in defeat.

"Why don't we watch… this time… and try to cook… next time?" he suggested diplomatically.

Rowena sighed. "Maybe that would be best." She looked at him mournfully. "I'm sorry."

"Not to worry, sweetheart," he said, patting her shoulder, the endearment falling naturally from his lips. True, she was Elizabeth's granddaughter, not his—but she didn't seem to mind being co-opted to a degree. He retreated to a safe spot next to Elizabeth, his arm automatically slipping about her shoulders. She glanced up at him speculatively, then smiled.

_There__'__s __that __look __again__…_ He didn't know what was preying on her mind, and so far she wasn't willing to talk about it. He could only hope that she'd let him stay around long enough, get close enough, that when she finally broke down and asked for help that he would be there.

/ / / / /

**October 3, 2009**

"Ducky!"

He braced himself for the hug but staggered back nonetheless. "You really should go out for the football team, dear, you'd make a marvelous tackle."

"We don't have a football team," Rowena said cheerfully.

"You'd never know she works with you almost every day," her mother said drily, coming out of the kitchen.

"But this is different! It's Saturday night dinner!"

"Back to studying," Tori said firmly. She snapped her hand towel at her daughter as she scurried past.

"Yeah, I have to earn my supper," Abby laughed.

Ducky handed over the bottle of wine. "You said we were having beef, but something light would do best…"

"Zinfandel. Nice. My favorite." Tori grinned. "We're abandoning all pretensions of glamour. Meatloaf, baked potatoes and veggies."

"Good home cookin'," Abby called out, smacking her lips enthusiastically.

"And, to be complete, blueberry pie," Elizabeth added, coming up from the basement with a tablecloth draped over her arm.

"Oh, you—let me get that," Tori fussed at her, reaching for the cloth.

"Victoria Gavinia—"

"Ooooh, Mom's in the doghouse," Ro chortled, ducking behind her chemistry textbook.

"Elizabeth Anne—" Tori shot back in the same tone.

"I am perfectly capable—"

"You are overdoing—"

"And _you_ are—"

"Ladies, ladies—please." Ducky stepped between them. "At least put the wine down before you do battle. I'd hate to see it turn to vinegar."

Tori tried to glare at her aunt but gave up and began to giggle. "Truce?"

"Will you let me set the damned table?"

"Oh, all right."

"Truce, then." Elizabeth leaned around Ducky and gave her a smooch on the cheek. "I love you."

"I know you do."

"Get back to cooking."

Ducky grinned as she headed toward the kitchen. "Gavinia. Gaelic. White hawk of battle. Fitting."

Behind him he heard Rowena whisper, "How does he know—"

"He just does," Abby whispered back. "_Everything_."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Some things never change," she said with a laugh.

"Oh?" He took an end of the tablecloth and helped her spread it neatly on the table.

"When I first met you, we drove off to the market and— You just—amazed me. God, you could talk about anything. It was like sitting next to an encyclopedia. I mean that in a nice way," she added quickly, seeing his face. "I was just in awe at your wealth of knowledge. I don't know where you store it all."

He tapped his forehead. "Just a very good filing system."

"Well…" She pulled dinner plates from where they waited atop the credenza and set them on the table. "If we play Trivial Pursuit, I'm grabbing you for my side."

Her side. Hmm. Could be fun.

/ / /

Abby and Rowena went straight from blueberry pie a la mode upstairs and back to chemistry cramming; discovering that one of the cable stations was running an old, campy British science fiction series, Tori, Elizabeth and Ducky passed on board games, grabbed more wine and settled in around the television.

"Dear God, I'd forgotten how bad this show was," Elizabeth groaned.

"It's pretty hard to top a line like, 'the aliens are _hereditarily_ _sterile_,'" Ducky admitted.

"And what is with those lavender wigs?" Tori asked, snickering over her wine.

"It was hip," Elizabeth said with a laugh.

"Futuristic," Ducky added.

"God, this is so bad, it's good." Tori pulled off her glasses and wiped tears from her eyes.

"You should see _Dr. __Who_," her aunt suggested.

"I've seen _Dr. __Who_. They've been running it on the Sy-Fy channel."

"No, no. Jon Pertwee was better."

Ducky grinned. "Oh, yes, the velvet jacket and lace-trimmed shirts."

Tori rolled her eyes. "You've got to be kidding."

"Nope. It was a classic," Elizabeth said.

Ducky slipped an arm around her shoulders. "It was very 'mod,'" he said. Elizabeth smiled up at him and moved a little closer. Encouraging. He promptly ruined the moment by yawning. "Oh, dear. Excuse me." He pushed his glass to the middle of the coffee table. "I definitely need to stop."

Tori stifled her answering yawn—barely. "Ditto. Y'know, we've got three extra rooms upstairs. You don't have to try to drive home."

He laughed. "I doubt either of you ladies has clothing I could borrow."

"Mmmh… good point. Well, from here on out, just bring an overnight bag with you."

How best to respond? Elizabeth was studiously staring at the television, carefully not looking at either of them. "Tori, that's—"

"Very sensible." Elizabeth was still looking at the television. "It's silly to drive home late—especially on Saturday, since you're just going to drive out to see your mother the next day." She turned and looked up at him. "You're already halfway there. And Abby has a bag here; half the time she spends the night. It'll be old home week."

"Well—" It really _was_ silly to drive home Saturday night just to turn around and drive back to Chantilly the next day. But there were the dogs to take care of… _Well, __there__'__s __always __Canine __Companions,_ he argued. _The __prices __are __reasonable, __they __take __better __care __than __I __do__… _"It's… certainly an idea," he admitted. He yawned again. "Lord, I shouldn't have had that second glass of wine."

"I'm sure Drew left some sweats in his old room from summer. You're close enough to the same size," Tori said, pushing herself off the couch. "Let me check."

"Oh, no, no—" he objected.

"If you think I'm letting you out on the road—" she yawned. "Okay, you only had two glasses of wine, but it's after dark, it's Saturday night, the drivers out there are morons, you're tired and I am _not_ letting you out that door, do you understand?"

"Give up now," Elizabeth counseled.

He yawned again, embarrassed. He _was_ tired. "You win," he laughed.

Elizabeth leaned forward, picked up his glass and handed it to him. "In that case… bottoms up."

He glanced at the clock. "Before anything else, let me call my neighbor to feed the dogs or I won't dare walk in tomorrow."

"Oh, they can't be _that_ bad," Elizabeth protested.

"Huh," he said, pulling out his cell phone. "You haven't met Tyson."

/ / /

Tori managed to find some very comfortable sweatpants and a pullover sweatshirt with an amusing group caricature of many well-known science fiction characters and the words. _**Reality **__**is **__**a **__**Crutch **__**For **__**Those **__**Who **__**Can**__**'**__**t **__**Handle **__**Science **__**Fiction**_ circled around the cartoon. "First draft," she said, tossing him the shirt. "Drew made it," she explained to his puzzled look. "The final draft was in about ten colors. All your stuff washable, nothing needs a dry cleaner?" The wine must have been more potent than he thought, because he had no idea what she meant. "If you leave your clothes on the bed, I'll toss them in the wash tonight," she said patiently. "Unless you want to visit your mother tomorrow—" She waved a hand at the sweats. "Or worse."

"Ah. Thank you. Yes, all washable." He changed quickly; wrapped in the pants he found a pair of fuzzy slippers that, amazingly, fit as well and ventured into the hallway—where he almost ran headfirst into Abby, clad in an old-fashioned flannel nightgown and carrying two plates with sandwiches and pie on them.

She took in his attire and grinned. "Cool! Slumber party!" She almost skipped off down the hall to Rowena's bedroom. With a sigh he made his way downstairs.

There were plates of sandwiches waiting on the coffee table—and more wine. "Midnight snack at nine-thirty? We only ate a few hours ago." Though, to be honest, just the sight made him feel a little peckish.

"None of us really ate that much—and cold meatloaf sandwiches are fabulous." Elizabeth pushed one of the plates toward him as well as his wineglass.

He picked up the glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk to seduce me?" _If __you __are, __we __can __skip __the __whole__ '__getting __drunk__' __part __of __that __equation._

"I think you have to be a trifle less willing for it to be a seduction," she whispered as Tori came in from the kitchen with the last of the pie.

There was no way he was able to follow that up in front of a third party. Shaking his head, he turned back to the television.

/ / / / /

**October 10, 2009**

Ducky took a sip of tea, 'cleansing his palate.' Eyes closed, he took a bite from the first plate of cookies. "Very crisp. Very light. Lemon… almond. Almond is a _little_ stronger than the lemon. Nice butter cream filling." He took another sip of tea and turned to the second plate. "Softer texture. Stronger lemon flavor, very tart, very nice. Almond not so pronounced. Just the right amount of butter cream." He closed his eyes, concentrating. "A bit of… lemon curd in the middle?"

"Yes," Elizabeth acknowledged.

"_Very_ good. Delicious." He took another drink of tea and took a cookie from the last plate. "Well… it's nice," he said politely.

"Come on, Donald, you aren't going to hurt my feelings. I need you to be honest."

"It's a bit… pallid. Bland. A nice texture, very soft, but… well, a bit boring."

"This is why we tweak recipes, my dear."

"The second is definitely my favorite. Nice, strong flavor. I rather like the texture of the first, best—I like crisp cookies—but the flavor of the second recipe is outstanding."

She nodded reflectively. "Okay. Let me see about combining the two." She smiled. "I appreciate the feedback."

"Well, Rowena told me the first weekend that being a test subject is one of the family perks."

"You got it, baby." She caught the phone on the second ring. "Hello? Oh, hi, Sam. Yeah, sure. Hang on." She set the phone aside and walked out to the dining room. "Ro? Ro, telephone!" She stuck her head back into the kitchen. "I have to duck down to the laundry room, be right back." She winked. "And, yes—you may have another cookie."

He grinned and snitched a cookie from the second plate. He heard thumping down the stairs and in a moment Rowena skittered into the kitchen and grabbed the phone with one hand and a cookie with the other. "'lo?" She grinned. "Dad! Hi! You gonna be here for Turkey Day? Well, we'll have a place for you in case. Yeah?" She listened for a long moment. "But—" She listened some more. "No." Her enthusiasm dropped. "No… it's okay. It's okay. I know." She sighed. "No, I—I understand. Yeah." Ducky stared at his tea, but out of the corner of his eye saw her glance at him briefly. "Yeah. Me, too. Yeah. Later." She hung up the receiver and turned away, jamming the cookie in her mouth.

"Is everything all right?" he asked gently.

She lifted a shoulder in a weak shrug. "Yeah," she mumbled around a full mouth.

He reached out and grasped her hand as she walked past. "Rowena… is there anything I can do to help?"

She looked down at him and forced a smile. "It's okay. It's—it's nothing. Really." She squeezed his hand. "But, thanks." She pulled her hand from his grasp and hurried from the room.

He took a long drink of his tea. It wasn't 'nothing.' He didn't need to have been around her for sixteen years to know something was wrong—any fool could see that. But he wasn't sure enough of his status in this extended family to follow her and try to get her to open up.

"Well, that was quick," Elizabeth said, coming into the kitchen and seeing the receiver had been replaced.

"Yes. It was."

She looked at him sharply. "Oh?" She gave him a measured look. "Spill it, Donald."

"I don't know what was said. But Rowena seemed…" He thought for a moment. "Disappointed."

Elizabeth sighed. "Never mind. I can guess exactly what happened." She slipped into the chair across from him and he looked at her expectantly. "Sam cancelled on her."

"Cancelled?"

"He's a bank examiner. You've seen the news—bank failures, reorganizations, mergers—"

He nodded.

"They've cut back his staff over the past years, so everyone has to pick up the slack. He's had to cancel and reschedule a lot of things the past year, but this…" She shook her head. "It's Homecoming next week. Ro is part of the Homecoming Court, all of the girls are being escorted by their fathers to the dance on Saturday."

"Ah," he said, understanding dawning.

"I know it's not something he can control, but—" She sighed.

"Elizabeth," he said slowly. "Would it be acceptable for her… grandfather to escort her?"

"I'm sure, but Fred died when she was in grade school."

"Well, how about a… proxy grandfather?"

She looked at him, startled. "You?" she said hesitantly.

"Do you think she'd…" he trailed off. It was a silly idea. He barely knew her, really.

She was thinking about it very seriously. "I think that's a very sweet idea." She gave him a small smile. "Why don't you go talk to her. Before Abby gets here."

He nodded, willing to trust her judgment.

Rowena's bedroom door was shut; surprisingly enough, it was silent within. _When __was __the __last __time __I __played __counselor __to __a __teenage __girl? _He rolled his eyes. _All __right__—__ignoring __Elizabeth__… __hmm, __yes, __when __the __little __girl __across __the __street __was __threatening __to __run __away __from __home._ He laughed silently and shook his head. _She__'__s, __what, __thirty __now? __Time __flies._ He let out a deep breath and knocked softly on the door. "Rowena? It's Ducky. May I come in?"

After a moment: "Yeah. Sure."

She was sitting cross-legged on one of the two beds, a can of Caf-Pow sitting loosely in her grasp. He had a sneaking suspicion she had recently dashed a hand across damp cheeks, but her face was composed. "What's up?"

He sighed; this was more difficult than he thought it would be. "Your grandmother… told me the problems you've been having recently, trying to get to see your father."

She smiled wryly. "Yeah. Lot of banks failing. Guess it's job security for him, but…" She shrugged.

He sat on the edge of her bed. "I… gather he had to cancel next week?"

Her gaze dropped. "Yeah," she said quietly. She shrugged. "Hey, stuff happens."

"Well… I don't know if this is the proper protocol, since it is _your_ homecoming dance… but if you wouldn't be too embarrassed to be escorted by your 'proxy grandfather'—I would be greatly honored to lead you in a dance."

She stared at him, eyes wide. "Hunh?"

He managed to not laugh. "I—"

"No, no, I—you'd really—Ducky, it's, it's a dorky high school dance—"

"And you're the homecoming queen."

She shook her head. "No, I'm just one of the court." She rolled her eyes. "Come on, there's only fifty-two in my class. It's a really small school." She scratched her ear. "You really…?"

"I'd be honored." He gave her a game smile. "How do you feel about dancing with someone who's a bit shorter than you are?"

She gave him a watery smile. "Ducky… to me… you're the _tallest_ man I know." She hugged him hard. "And it's cool—the queen is being escorted by her grandfather, too." She pulled back and grinned at him. "But my date's better looking."

"I have a feeling that will be _my_ opinion."

/ / / / /

**October 12, 2009**

"You're rather quiet today."

Rowena flashed Ducky the barest hint of a smile and carefully set a dark blue file on his desk. "I hadn't thought so." The smile grew by the barest fraction. "Tell Agent Gibbs, I'm sure he'll mark a holiday."

Her voice was almost mocking. He looked at her in surprise, but before he could say anything, she skittered back out the door and into the elevator.

"Huh." He folded his arms and stared at the file. That was _not_ the Rowena he'd come to know. Even facing the disappointment of her father canceling plans at the last minute she had been sad and upset—but not snippy. It just wasn't her nature. "That was most queer." The file didn't answer him. He reached for the telephone, then changed his mind; no, no sense dragging Elizabeth into something that could well turn out to be nothing. It was probably just a case of teenage hormones (an idea that was truly frightening). Shaking his head, he opened the file.

A six-page report. All blank.

That was even more unlike her usual behavior. She was the queen of dotted i's and crossed t's, level margins and balanced pages a forte. She and Abby were in silent competition for completeness in their work.

Oh, _bother_. This could be quite unpleasant.

He forced himself to go upstairs, loathe to show up her flaw in front of Abby—but he needn't have worried. Rowena was alone in the lab, running calibration on the gas chromatograph. "No Abby?"

"Deposition. Running late. Be here in a half hour."

Good heavens, she was as chatty as a Mafia don in front of the Grand Jury. "Aah."

She finally glanced up and saw the file in his hands. "Is there a problem?" Not rude—but not Rowena. "With the report, I mean?"

"Well…" He walked over and set the report next to her and flipped open the cover.

Her mouth actually fell open slightly. "What the…" Brows knit, she flipped through the pages with growing irritation. She made an inarticulate noise and grabbed the computer mouse, clicking almost viciously. "It's right there!" She pointed at the screen.

"So I see," he said gently.

She clicked on the printer list and let out a deep sigh. "Son of a…" She grabbed the file, glowered at it and then slammed it onto the countertop. "I printed the shell document! It's nothing but format codes and commands!" She clicked on a listed document and the printer kicked into action. She walked over to the printer—not stomping her feet, but neither was she walking with great delicacy. Under her breath he heard a couple of expletives that would have been deleted on television along with muttered 'moron,' 'idiot' and 'jackass' thrown in for good measure. She returned, grabbed the blank pages from the file and crumpled them up, flinging them into the 'white paper ONLY' recycle bin, putting the fresh pages into the report and holding it out to Ducky, one smooth, if sharply-edged move.

He silently took the report… and set it back down on the counter. "Rowena," he said cautiously, "what's wrong?"

She sat down hard on her task chair, the motion sending it skittering a few inches on silent wheels. Her head shook 'no' repeatedly in the most minute of motions, then she gave a decisive negative shake. "Nothing." Her voice was… bitter, he realized with a shock.

"I'm not trying to pry, my dear—but you're normally conscientious to a fault, not to mention a—a ray of sunshine in this sometimes gloomy place." She flicked her eyes up and he frowned slightly to see her reddened eyes. She had been crying today. A lot. He reached down to cup her cheek. "Please?"

Her eyes flooded and he could feel her tremble under his hand. "Oh…" It was a barely articulate cry. "Oh… Ducky!" She almost flung herself against him.

He patted her back ineffectually in a growing panic. Good God, she was in a total dither and he was feeling more and more at a loss as her sobs grew. _Maybe __I __should __have __called __Elizabeth_, he thought belatedly. She was probably far better versed in dealing with teenage hysteria.

He was able to catch an occasional word or even complete phrase—"Paxton," "study," "skating," "scholarship," "Dean's List," "Paxton." (Paxton, a recurring theme, was apparently a young man) and anguished "whys?" repeated throughout as his scrub front became more and more sodden. By careful listening over a good twenty minutes, he finally pieced together what he was pretty sure had happened. Act one: Paxton (definitely a young man) had been her occasional skating partner in junior high. At that time, he had also transferred to her school. They had been best friends and skating partners. Act two: Once in high school, the two had become boyfriend and girlfriend. Rowena had 'retired' from skating, choosing to pursue her education without the distraction. Paxton, however, had continued to skate, now as a soloist. Act three: As classes grew harder, Paxton's grades began to slip, while Rowena had made the Dean's List for three years running. Paxton was a good skater, but not exceptional, but was putting more hours on the ice than he was studying despite having to know on _some_ level that his skating career was strictly lower rung. He was already getting polite declines from colleges and universities and no scholarship offers. He knew he had to do something to get back on track. Act four (the biggie): Paxton decided the two or three times a month he saw Rowena outside of school were the true distraction…and while she was walking from the parking lot into the school let her know they were no longer a couple.

"He—he _texted_ me!" She burst into fresh tears.

_A __true __Renaissance __man_, Ducky thought. "Rowena… Paxton is an idiot."

"No, he's not!" she said hotly. "He's smart and he's funny and I _love_ him and—and—" She hiccoughed. "Oh—" Another hic. "Oh, damn!"

"Take a deep breath… hold it." She did so. "Now. You realized, early on, that you couldn't spread yourself too thinly or nothing would be accomplished. You had to make a choice. And what happened?" He glanced at the clock. "Ten more seconds. What happened was you made the Dean's List for three years running. And I'll bet—okay, let it out." She exhaled. "I'll bet you do, again, this year. Take another breath," he said as she gave another loud 'hic!' and grabbed for a box of tissues. "Now, Paxton apparently didn't want to choose. He thought he could have it all and do it all. And now that it's down to the wire, he's a senior and time is running out, he's trying to play catch up. And instead of putting the blame where it belongs, he's pointing the finger at someone else. _You_ took up all his spare time. _You_ caused him to drop in his classes. How much time do you study each day?"

"Th—three, four hours?"

"And most of the weekend. Plus you help out at the store. And you work here in the lab every day. You gave up something you love—skating—to give yourself that edge. Paxton didn't. In one month—where you have, what, 300 open hours to schedule—you spent six, maybe ten hours with him?"

She nodded mutely, her hiccoughs down to small sniffles.

"So that leaves 290. Does he have a job, an internship?"

"No…"

"How much does he skate a day?"

She shrugged. "Six hours a day? Eight? More on the weekend."

"More on the weekend—when _you_ are studying half of the time he skates during the week and probably all of the time on the weekend. Rowena, he's jealous. Three years ago you made the choice _he_ should have made, and it's staring him in the face. He's jealous, he's embarrassed—so he's blaming you and pushing you away. Perhaps he'll grow wiser in the future, perhaps he'll even apologize… but I'm here to tell you that, having been a young man… as a species, young men are notorious for making idiotic choices about young women. And it has nothing to do with intelligence," he added before she could defend him again. "I'm sure he's quite intelligent—just not very smart right now."

"What—what should I do?" she asked plaintively.

He sighed. "You hurt," he said simply, but sympathetically. "He broke your heart… and if he were here, I'd give him a headslap that would make Jethro impressed." She gave a tiny laugh. "Your first love is something you remember for the rest of your life." He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed her cheeks. "And so is your first breakup."

"It just—it hurts, really, it _hurts_, not just in my heart but my body, it hurts so much—"

He let her rest her head against him and stroked her hair. "I know…"

"And then I go from being sad to being mad and I just want to—_oooooh!_" She pulled back and crossed her arms defiantly.

"And that's perfectly normal, too, my dear. And… I have a suggestion."

"What?"

"Go upstairs. You're allowed workout room privileges, yes?"

"Yeah…"

"Channel your anger. Go upstairs, go to the workout room, beat the living daylights out of a punching bag. Or find a sparring partner." He cocked his head. "Ziva is often there during the afternoon if they aren't on a case. I'm sure she could help you… ah, focus your feelings. And… I'm sure she would have her own insights to the situation as well. I can only offer the perspective of a former youth who was equally foolish—the thoughts of another young woman might be of more help."

She sniffled again and managed a trembling hint of a smile. "She'll probably give me tips on how to kill him and avoid detection."

He smiled. "Probably."

She let out a deep breath. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"And… thanks. For not saying, 'oh, it's just puppy love' and making like it's no big thing—" Her eyes were still anguished.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter what name they call it. 'A rose, by any other name…' Puppy love, first crush, the love of your life—when you break apart, it hurts. And anyone who belittles those feelings doesn't remember what it was like."

She abruptly hugged him. "I'm so glad you're part of the family."

He smiled down at the tangle of hair that clashed with his scrubs. "So am I."

/ / / / /

**October 13, 2009**

"Autopsy, Dr. Mallard speaking."

"My, you sound so formal."

"Elizabeth!" He couldn't stop the grin even if he had wanted to. "What a lovely surprise."

"Well, I changed my PT to mornings and I've been driving myself in. This is the first time I didn't want to drive home and sit in the Jacuzzi for an hour and then face plant on the bed for another four. Thought I'd celebrate."

"Oh? How?"

"You still like Indian food?"

He laughed. "Yes, I do," with far more honesty than the first time she'd asked him.

"Great. Just heard about a new restaurant called The Wicked Belly Dancer. Supposedly they have a lamb curry that's like a sneak attack—chomp away for the first four or five bites than, bam!—you're swallowing a quart of yogurt to put out the fire."

"You want to see if this will kill me, eh?"

"Nah. I want to eat it—I just think it might be safer with an MD nearby."

"I'll bring my kit. Shall I meet you there?" Wherever 'there' was.

"Actually… I'm halfway to the Navy Yard already."

"Pretty sure of yourself, my dear."

"No, just… hopeful."

"I'll request a drive-on pass and meet you at the entrance. Or… would you like to come in, see where Rowena is working with Abby…?"

"Is that allowed?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise."

"Oh. True. Well, yes, I'd love to."

"Fine. I'll meet you downstairs at security. How far away are you?"

"Five minutes, tops."

"Five minutes."

He quickly emailed the pass request and went to slip on his jacket. As his hand touched the hanger he paused then reached past it to take his lab coat. Rowena had teased him the other week that he looked 'wicked sharp' in the white coat; he hoped her grandmother would have a similar response.

She did. "Wow. You run around here looking like that—and you're not taken? Guess blindness is a job requirement for the women, hunh?"

"Your compliment is appreciated, my dear." Elizabeth's hand tucked through his elbow, he took her on a tour of the more open areas of the building, eventually passing near the bullpen.

Gibbs was the first to notice, glancing up… then returning for a longer look. "Ducky." The word was a statement; the look, a question.

"Jethro. I'd like to introduce Elizabeth Hamilton, a dear friend of mine—and Rowena's grandmother." As Gibbs held out a cordial hand, "Dear, this is Special Agent Gibbs, team leader."

Gibbs flicked him a glance over the 'dear,' but it was lost in Elizabeth's laugh. "Did your parents name you Special Agent?"

He smiled. "Maybe they should have." But he didn't volunteer a first name.

"Elizabeth. How good to see you again." Ziva tossed a file on her desk. "You look well."

"Physical therapy may be a pain, but it works. I can't wait to get back to the store."

"I was surprised to see you were still out."

Elizabeth gave her a mock glare. "Tori won't let me darken the doorstep… yet. I've threatened to work for the competition."

"Where are—" Ducky looked around.

"Evidence locker." Ziva gave him a sly smile. "Tony will be most disappointed to have missed meeting _Rowena__'__s_ _grandmother_."

"Don't worry." Gibbs looked up from the report he was reading. "I'm sure you'll give him the details." He smiled and returned to the page. "Or… I can."

Elizabeth waited until they were by the elevator before giving Ducky a sharp look. "Okay. What did I miss?"

Ducky smiled. "Oh… when Rowena first started her internship, it came up that she occasionally helped her _grandmother_ out at the shop. Anthony made the… leap… that you were…"

"A gray-haired, wrinkled, doddering Hallmark grandma?"

"That puts it pretty well. It was alluded to that you were _far_ from gray-haired, wrinkled and doddering. And he has been fearful that someone will blow his cover with you. He rather fancied Rowena, even though she showed him no interest, he knows she's only sixteen… and I told him, politely, to back off." He ushered her into the elevator.

"Politely. Right." She grinned. "Well, my vanity will claim two and a half of the three—and my inherent parsimony will point out that I'm too damned cheap to dye what's gone gray."

"I, for one, am glad for that thriftiness." He reached down to brush back the wings on one temple. "Personally, I find the dusting of gray quite handsome."

"You, Donald Mallard… have always been able to turn a pretty phrase." She gave him a quick kiss just as the elevator doors closed. "And I thank you." She smiled faintly. "And… thank you. For yesterday."

He frowned. "Yesterday?"

"You, ah, were pressed into counselor duties for Rowena?"

"Ah. Yes." He snorted faintly. "Paxton."

"He'll come running back, I'm sure… but I think she might not take him back."

_Good. __He __doesn__'__t __deserve __her._ He kept the thought to himself.

The door to Forensics slid open and Abby whirled around. "Gibbs! Not Gibbs! Good! I have nothing for Gibbs! _Ducky_!" She ran over and threw her arms around him. "Lizzie!" Another bone-crushing hug.

Elizabeth glanced around and laughed. "Just like home. Caf-pow on every flat surface, music at 400 decibels…"

"But without a great dinner waiting," Abby said firmly. "The caff really sucks here, do you have time to go out to lunch, there's a great place—"

"Ah… I have a prior engagement for lunch, Abby, could I take a rain check?" Elizabeth blushed faintly.

She stepped back and gave them a devious smile. "Oh-ho! That explains why Duckman is looking so sharp!"

"Abby!" he said with mild indignation.

"Abby's right, Donald." The look Elizabeth gave him was a barely repressed laugh flavored with definite interest. "You do look sharp."

"Perhaps we should eat here, where I can retain the glow of my lab coat."

"No," she laughed. "I have it on reliable authority that the cafeteria here 'sucks.' And I'm dying to eat at The Wicked Belly Dancer."

Abby's eyes widened. "Oh! They have this lamb curry that will knock you on your butt—"

"So I've heard."

"Abby, I thought Elizabeth might be interested in seeing where Rowena spends so many afternoons…"

"Oh! Sure!" She 'introduced' Elizabeth to all of the equipment (by name), showed off her most recent forensic art on the walls and bragged on her intern as though Elizabeth were the Director and she was angling for a raise and an actual paycheck for Rowena. "I really, _really_ hate having assistants, Ducky will tell you that, I don't like having people in the lab with me unless I really, _really_ know them well, like McGee, I have no problem when we work on a computer problem together, he gets how I work, we do great together, so I really, _really_ didn't think it would work with Rozer. But I was wrong, I'm so glad I was wrong, it's like, I get to start her from the very basics, like she had a memory wipe so she doesn't have any bad habits, well, except the ones I'm teaching her—"

Ducky was glad she said it before he did.

"But that's okay, she's like a Mini-Me, only she's not, well, she is, kind of, she's a quarter inch shorter, but that's not enough to be a Mini-Me I guess."

"That's short enough in my book," Elizabeth said solemnly.

"But you guys need to go to lunch! And don't take your phone, that way Gibbs can't call you—"

"Abigail—"

"Hey, stiffs can wait, lunch can't," she said irreverently. "And I'll pretend I never heard where you're going to lunch in case he asks me, you're going to McDonald's, right?"

"McDonald's, right." Elizabeth grinned as Ducky ushered her from the room. "I'll have him bring you back a Happy Meal."

"Ooh! With the _Nightmare __Before __Christmas_ toy! Cool!" She clapped her hands. "Get the channar payesh for desert!" she called after them just as the door shut.

/ / / / /

**October 15, 2009**

"Ducky?"

He looked around. "Abby…?" He thought he had heard her voice…

"Psst. Ducky."

He caught sight of her on the laboratory link screen. "Ab—"

She held up a finger to her lips. She moved her finger into a 'come here' motion. To reiterate, she pointed to him then pointed downward. You. Here.

"I'll be right there," he said, baffled. The screen went blank.

In Abby's lab, he stepped through the door, hands spread wide. "Abby, what—"

She sprang forward and grabbed his hand. "Come here." She dragged him toward her office.

In the doorway, he stopped cold. "My… heavens."

At Abby's desk, Rowena was busy typing a report. She stopped, eyes squeezed shut. "Why… am I not surprised," she sighed.

"But you look so cute," Abby argued.

"I didn't have time to change before I left school, I thought I grabbed the bag with my clothes." Rowena rolled her eyes in disgust. "I grabbed my dirty gym clothes instead."

"Oh, dear."

"Come on," Abby coaxed. "Stand up. Let him see the whole thing."

Rowena dropped her head. "Oh, God. I guess I should be glad Agent DiNozzo was out of the office when I get here." She stood up and spread out her arms. "Catwoman, at your service."

Ducky had to agree. It _was_ a good thing Tony was out of the office. The patent leather bodysuit was just a little too tight, a little too revealing. "Ah—new school uniform?"

"Homecoming Week."

"And…?" His thoughts of Homecoming revolved around football games, formal dances, cheerleaders and perhaps a bonfire—at least what he remembered from the children he'd met in the States over the past couple of decades.

"We do different things every day for 'homecoming spirit.' Dressed in school colors the other day—we had a pie-eating contest at lunch today—"

"In _that_?" he asked, amused.

"_I_ did _not_ participate," she said firmly. "I don't dare eat or drink anything in this. I'll split a seam. Today it was 'dress as your favorite superhero or fairy tale character.'"

He folded his arms. "I thought Catwoman was one of the bad guys."

She propped a fist on her hip and angled an elbow. "Depends on your point of view," she said sweetly. Abby giggled.

"How did you even get in the building?"

"Well… I was wearing my coat. And the security guard has a kid in high school, and _her_ school does things that make Wakefield look normal so he just waved me right in."

Ducky shook his head and laughed. "Well… I'm sure I have a set of scrubs around that will fit you—"

"Bless you."

"No!" Abby stamped her foot. "I want to show her off, she looks so great!"

"Why don't you simply take a picture?" he suggested.

Abby was taken aback. "Why didn't I think of that?"

He patted her shoulder. "It's the performance artist in you." He leaned over as they walked out of the office. "And please remind Anthony… she's sixteen."

"And you'll kill him."

"Precisely."

/ / / / /

**October 17, 2009**

"Okay, am I acting like a complete goop?"

Elizabeth grinned. "Yeah, you are. Just like I did when you went off to your first big dance."

"Mom, you've taken a zillion pictures," Rowena objected.

"And she's going to take 'a zillion' more," Ducky said with a laugh. "Live with it." He smiled as Elizabeth fussed with the corsage, repining it to the bodice of Rowena's gown. "My dear… you look lovely."

"Thank you." Rowena grinned down at him. "You look pretty sharp, too."

He inclined his head. "Shall we?" He helped her on with her wrap—it was more fashionable than functional—and escorted her to the front door.

Elizabeth and Tori followed them out. "I have to say, I'm more comfortable with you escorting her than Sam," Tori murmured.

"Oh?"

"You're a better driver than he is."

Rowena stopped halfway down the walk. "We're taking the Morgan?" she gasped.

"Of course."

"Oh my God. Oh my God! We're taking the Morgan. We're taking the Morgan!" Rowena hugged herself.

"Something tells me… you guys are going to make a hit when you pull up," Elizabeth laughed.

"Good…" He grinned. "It's my first homecoming dance."

She crooked a finger. "I'll have the Jacuzzi waiting for you. Just in case," she said quietly.

"Three hours at a high school dance?" he murmured. "No 'just in case' about it."

"Plan on being exhausted?"

"Very."

"I'll start the water running at a quarter past. Shall I lay out your jammies and robe on your bed?" Her eyes twinkled. "I'm sure I kept at least one of the kids' wubbies—"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Excuse me, dear," he said with sweet primness. "My date is waiting." He could still hear her giggling as she shut the door.

/ / / / /

**October 18, 2009**

_Hamilton/Cameron._

Ducky stared at the blinking screen on his cell phone for a moment then flipped it open. "Hello."

"Hey, Donald."

"Elizabeth."

"I know this is dreadfully last-minute, I should have said something when you were leaving—but would you like to join us for dinner after you visit your mother?"

_After __I __visit __Mother._ He closed his eyes and sighed. _What __was __it __children __said __when __caught__ "__out__" __on __a __game__—'__do __over, __do __over!__' __Yes__… __I __call__ '__do __over__' __for __today._

"Donald?" she asked hesitantly. He suddenly realized he'd been silent for quite some time.

"I'm… I already—saw—Mother," he said. His head dropped and he rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I—I don't think I'd be very good company, Elizabeth." He forced out a laugh.

This time the long silence was from her end. "Then… perhaps it's all the more reason for you to be here," she said gently.

_Oh, __Elizabeth_… Forty years.

Forty… _damned_… years.

He shook his head. _No__… __no__… __Go __home. __Curse __the __skies, __drink __too __much, __fall __into __oblivious __sleep__…_ "Thank you. Yes." He swallowed hard, blinking to clear angry tears. "Thank you."

/ / /

Small talk was small, both in content and number. Blessedly, they were alone; Abby had reached a point where she needed to give Rowena a hands-on demonstration for chapter 10 to really make sense and had sweet-talked a friend at the Jeffersonian into playing Mr. Wizard for the afternoon. Ducky went about the kitchen on autopilot, following Elizabeth's requests and instructions with almost no questions or comments.

For her part, Elizabeth kept conversation to a minimum, her voice even and pleasant. No highs, no lows, no queries, no demands. In some ways, that only made it worse.

Dinner in the oven, she turned back with a smile. "Wine? Iced tea? Mmh?"

He managed a ghost of a smile. "Whatever is easiest."

"Hmh." Elizabeth considered it for a moment. "Sugar? Lemon?"

"Plain is—fine. Thank you." He watched her pour the brewed tea over ice, looking so homey, so domestic… and fought the rising tide of fury. She handed him a glass. "Thank you." His voice was taut.

She looked a little startled, but smiled nonetheless. "Let's be hedonistic and put our feet up."

In the living room she put on some music—a soothing instrumental he didn't recognize—and took a seat near the end of the long couch. She gave him an inviting glance, but he was too tense to sit. He wandered the room aimlessly, staring blankly at mementoes. _Her __life. __Not __mine._

"How is your mother?"

He shook his head slowly, then lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Some days are better than others." He took a sip of the tea. "Today… was not one of the better days."

Behind him, she sighed gently. "Oh, Donald… I'm so sorry."

Sorry. He knew she was just being sympathetic… but he remembered all the times she apologized for other people, for wrongs beyond her control. Tish. Dennys. Her mother.

Her mother.

The tea sloshed precipitously and he realized that he was becoming so tense that his entire body was shaking. _Calm. __Breathe. __Relax. __Don__'__t __take __this __out __on __Elizabeth__…_ He stared at the photograph—Elizabeth walking away from the camera, sleepy Rowena held tight, her head on Nana's shoulder, Bronwyn and Drew on either side of her, staying close by hanging on to the front pockets of her skirt. _Her __life. __Her __life, __not __mine, __**not **__**mine**__, __dammit!_

"_Donald!_"

He stared at his hand, uncomprehending, the icy wetness dripping off his fingers to the floor where the shattered glass had fallen.

Elizabeth ran back from the kitchen, towel in hand. "Oh, honey, did you get cut?" She patted his hand gingerly.

It took him three tries to croak out, "No."

"Thank heavens for that."

Honey. _Honey_.

Gentle, loving attentions…

Intelligent, witty company…

Meals shared with the laughter and squabbling of children in the background…

Loving silences, trivial arguments…

_Not my life._

He blinked, suddenly realizing she was carefully mopping up the flood of tea and shards of glass. "Elizabeth! No, no, let me—I, I'm so sorry—"

"Accidents happen," she said, looking up with a comforting smile. "I've got it, it's fine… I'm just glad you didn't get hurt."

_Not on the outside._

She pulled the glass off to the side and covered it with the saturated towel and made a 'stay put' gesture. "Later." She stood and took him by the hand, leading him to the sofa. "Sit down…" Her voice was extra gentle; it made him want to cry. Or scream. She sat next to him, legs crossed and tucked under. If he took off his glasses, the slightly blurred result would look so much like how she appeared so many years ago… "Well, that was a little bit of a smile at least…" She reached out and brushed the hair back from his brow. "Joy shared is doubled. Sorrow shared is halved," she quoted. The stubborn lock of hair fell back and she brushed it away again. "Let me help?"

He let out a deep breath. "They really do… wonderful work. At Cambridge." He put himself in semi-clinical mode, trying to divorce himself from the feelings. "All the staff—they have a background in geriatric care, they're accustomed to dealing with Alzheimer's patients, they're… they're truly phenomenal. She actually improved when she moved there… for a while, anyway." He tried to gather his thoughts; she sat silently, radiating comfort. "Mother… has always been after me to—to settle down. Give her grandchildren, she's almost _obsessed_ with grandchildren," he said awkwardly.

Elizabeth dropped her gaze for a second, then looked hesitantly back up at him.

"Tori and Rowena want to visit her… I've been, well, introducing them from afar to get her accustomed to hearing their names, hearing about them. I told her about you, what had happened…"

"Oh."

"She's been following along fairly well—for Mother, fairly well. But today…" The visit replayed in his mind. Barely ten minutes, ten long minutes… The anger, the venom—all directed at Elizabeth, the other innocent victim in Julia Stewart's almost Machiavellian desire to control the lives of others. He tried to make her understand, to see, but she had gone too far down her own path to come back to his line of thinking. As his fury over what Julia had done grew he found himself growing shorter and sharper with his mother until he finally had to flee. _Dead __almost __twenty-five __years__… __and __you __still __hurt __people._ "There are… few… people. I despise. As I do your mother," he said haltingly. He hadn't planned on saying the words—they just came out. She gasped slightly and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—"

She threw her arms around him, holding him tightly. "You didn't, you didn't. I just—I try not to think about her. Because I turn into such a child again, a child wondering, 'why did you hate me so much, why did you have to hurt us all so much?'"

"I should have been there. I should have been _here_," he said tightly. "Helped you with Tish, helped you raise Tori, God, had our own children, too—she stole that from you, she stole that from me, she stole that—from my _mother_…"

"I'm sorry." A gasp, a sob. She held on to him for dear life, weeping openly, face pressed to his shoulder, her tears soaking his shirt. "Donald, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am so sorry—"

He rubbed her back comfortingly. Forty years ago he had held her like this. Forty years ago she had been driven to hiding in a locked room to avoid her parents fighting, had apologized as she was now for things she hadn't done… Forty years.

And nothing had changed.

Not yet.

_You __didn__'__t __win_, he thought viciously. _You __didn__'__t __win. __I __have __her __back __and __this __time __I __won__'__t __let __go._ "I love you," he whispered into her ear. "I never stopped loving you, not when she pulled us apart, no matter what—you were always in my heart. I always loved you. And I always will love you."

"I'm so sorry—"

"No," he said firmly. He kissed her and touched his forehead to hers. "No more sorry. From here on… we only move forward." After a moment's hesitation he kissed her again, a little more firmly… then the lightest of touches to just her bottom lip then the top, a silent _may __I?_

She welcomed the invitation, enjoying his slow explorations and responding in kind. This was what he had missed all those years, the tingle down his spine, the frisson of electricity through his body that mounted with each kiss, the feel of her hands on his back rubbing firmly, pulling him toward her, the warmth of the breast he cupped in his hand, hidden by her clothing… The soft gasps and raspy breaths becoming more ragged with their climbing arousal, the sweet shiver of want, of need… Just as slowly as their passion had mounted it gently faded away, leaving them looking at each other uncertainly, hesitantly. _I __want __this,_ the eyes of each said to the other. _I __want __you._ _But__… __not __here. __Not __now._

Not yet.

Not… yet.

/ / / / /

**October 19, 2009**

"Lunch with Lizzie?"

Ducky continued to tap at the keyboard, smiling slightly. He could feel the smirk radiating from Abby as she stood behind him, arms folded and leaning gently against his upper back. "I hope you… approve," he said drily.

"Hey, so long as my _intern_ approves… but I think she has a big ol' soft spot for you, so I guess you're safe. Personally…" She leaned over and gave him a smooch on the cheek. "I think it's cute."

"Cute." He tried not to wince.

"Well, there are too many people around the house on the weekend—myself included. But you went out three times last week, going again today, had a long talk on the phone yesterday—" He shot her a sharp look. "Ducky, the line shows lit for Autopsy in my office, just like mine shows lit down here. I don't think that was Jimmy talkin' to his mom for forty-seven minutes."

He sighed. "True enough."

"I think it's great that you guys are dating."

"It's not—I wouldn't call it—" Actually he _would_, but it would be nice to keep his private life a little more private.

"Well, whatever you call it—I think it's great. And—" She grabbed the ringing telephone.

"Abby!"

"Autopsy, Abby Sciuto speaking!" She grinned. "Thank you, Frank," she said formally. "Dr. Mallard will be right down." She replaced the receiver. "Don't keep your date waiting, Duckman."

He sighed—almost groaned. "It's _not_ a _date_—"

"Where are you going for lunch?"

"_Le __Baiser __Doux __Restaurant __et __Patisserie_," he replied without thinking.

Abby chuckled and headed for the door. "Ducky… _that__'__s_ a _date_."

/ / / / /

**October 24, 2009**

"You could simply ask the girls to turn down the volume. You don't have to run away from home almost every time Abby comes over." He peered at Elizabeth through half closed lids.

"Supposedly they study better with that racket. And I can't deny it seems to help."

"But it _is_ your house."

"Give and take. It's key to the teenage years." She folded her hands on her stomach and smiled, eyes closed.

"Huh. I thought it was the case of single malt in the basement."

"You peeked." She reached over and smacked his thigh lightly, eyes still shut. "Tell me," she said lazily.

"Tell you what? Let's see—the museum was originally a family homestead built during the Colonial times, but by the Civil War—"

"Not that."

"Ah. Well… the hedge maze was part—"

"Not _that_," she sighed in mock exasperation. She turned over on her side, propping her head on her uninjured hand. "You," she said softly. She reached over and brushed the hair back from his brow. "Tell me about you."

"Well, right now I feel an absolute slacker, lying here on the grass," he grumbled, teasing.

"You deserve to be a slacker. You work like crazy all week, you go visit your mother all the time, you're Rowena's willing slave, you baby-sit me—"

"Ah, but then I'm repaid by a wonderful picnic and the company of a beautiful, charming woman." He opened his eyes slightly and gave her a sidelong glance.

She gave him a small smile and—yes, blushed. "You always were the smooth one."

"I tried."

She sat up and crossed her legs, a smooth, graceful move. Some women in their fifties tried to wear jeans and shouldn't—Elizabeth still looked fine in hers, damned fine. "Come on," she coaxed. She gently stroked his forehead and he sighed, smiling, enjoying the touch. "You know where I've been, what I've done… tell me." She moved over and sat behind him, massaging his temples slowly, gently. "I didn't get to be there…"

He let out a deep breath, the tension of the week flowing out of his body. "God, that feels wonderful…" She didn't say anything but kept up her gentle ministrations. "Mmmmh… Well… let's see. I came to the U.S. in 1980, just before Christmas. Worked in California for a number of years as a Medical Examiner—Hollywood, actually. Met someone with NCIS on the West Coast, down in San Diego, heard there was an opening here… Mother decided to move to the States, she joined me here in Virginia… the rest is history."

"How did you end up becoming a Medical Examiner instead of a G.P.?"

He sighed. How the hell could he tell her… God, she'd never understand. He couldn't ask her to. There were days _he_ didn't fully understand.

Her fingers were so relaxing, so soothing. "What happened?" she said gently.

He let out a slow breath. "After—your mother… I… went to Viet Nam… Twice… Posted with an Australian unit the first time. Americans the second." It was as though he was narrating a film, telling someone else's life. There was a wall of glass between him and the past, keeping the memories at bay where they didn't hurt. "Came back… little of this, little of that… They needed doctors for the babies…"

"What babies?" Her voice was soft.

"The orphans. The flights from Saigon…"

She gasped faintly. "You helped…? Oh, Donald, that's… so _you_." He felt her lips brush his forehead and he smiled.

"I went to California, I tried to find you…" He was so relaxed; her touch was like hypnosis, like a truth serum. "After all that time, I remembered how to drive to your house… you weren't there, it was another family, with a… Pomeranian… Damned yappy thing… I went back home… then I went… I went…" Unbidden, memories of dust, dirt and pain surfaced and his hand jerked in reflex.

"It's all right…" Her voice was the barest whisper. "It's all right."

Words fell over each other, words he couldn't stop, painting a picture of hell on earth. "I thought I was helping them. The things he did to them… It didn't stop. It never stopped." _Why __am __I __saying __this? __Why __am __I __telling __her? __God__… __I __killed __a __man, __I __**killed **__him!_ "I could have walked away."

He heard a soft rustle, felt her lay down next to him. Her arms slid around him and she drew his head to the warm comfort of her bosom, stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head. "I know," she said gently. "I know, I know..."

"I killed him."

"You saved him."

He was shaking with sudden exhaustion. He thought he'd put these demons to rest months ago. Wrong. "I could have walked away, let him live—"

"You didn't know that. With what was happening, with what you knew—you did him a kindness." She rested her cheek atop his head. "Donald… you are gentle. And kind. And loving and compassionate… and he used that against you. You are not a monster. You're not." He felt a single tear fall from her face to his, falling down his cheek as though it were his own. "You're the heart of the world, our soul, our conscience. Our protector." Her lips brushed over his forehead. "Our angel."

_Ealasaid_…

He'd found her. He'd found her, and she wanted him in her world.

She loved him.

He could never truly forgive himself… but she forgave him.

And she loved him.

Ealasaid. His beloved Ealasaid.

All was right again. Or at least it could be.

In the warm fall sun, in the arms of unconditional love, he slept.

* * *

><p>18<p> 


	19. Capriccio Dissonance

**Chapter Nineteen: Capriccio Dissonance**

_**Capriccio:** A quick,  
>improvisational, spirited<br>piece of music.  
><em>_**Dissonance:** Harsh,  
>discordant, and lack of harmony.<br>Also a chord that sounds  
>incomplete until it<br>resolves itself on a  
>harmonious chord.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>October 30, 2009<strong>

"What can I do to help?"

"Sit and keep me company."

"I'm not an invalid, Donald. And it's been seven weeks. _What_ _can_ _I __do __to __help_?"

"Hmm. Juggle oranges?"

She gave him a dirty look. "Jerk." There was a light tease in her tone.

"You offered—a little entertainment goes a long way," he said with a smug smile. He began pulling ingredients from the shopping bags, humming under his breath.

"I feel absolutely useless!" she said sharply. "Tori won't let me in to my own shop, I hardly ever get to cook, you won't even let me _help_—"

He walked over to where she sat perched on a stool. He tipped her chin up and gave her a brief kiss. "Consider this a settling of accounts. All those wonderful meals you cooked when Edward and I came over and I could barely scramble an egg."

"But I'm going stir crazy!"

"Well, Ted was willing to let you go in to work, it was Tori who ratted you out, my dear."

"What!"

"Mm-hmm. She said you wouldn't follow orders, that you'd be in the kitchen all the time, trying to do more than you should, in danger of injuring yourself again—or worse—"

"That rotten little—"

"Elizabeth—" He touched a fingertip to her lips to silence her. "She did it because she loves you. Because she's worried about you. You need to take things a little more slowly, my dear." She fumed silently. "Now. Sit there and be a good little girl—"

She glared at him. "Are you ever going to let me live that down?"

"Maybe."

"Come on, Donald. Here and now—is eleven years _that_ big of a deal?"

"Maybe." He kissed her again, a longer touch. "Maybe… not." Her eyes ran over his face looking for—what? Something. He had no idea what, but every time he kissed her she'd give him a wondering, wandering look as though unsure what to say or think. As though she didn't believe he was really there.

Well, for forty years he hadn't been. Who could fault her for doubting her own senses? At least they'd progressed to the point of light banter and occasional kisses, often even initiated on her side. In a month and a half they were about half as far as they had been the first week or two they'd been together. With any luck they'd escalate to some really serious necking by the time one or both of them retired.

"I'll make a deal with you. If you're very careful… I could use some mushrooms being washed and sliced."

"Oh, you are _so_ on." She almost leaped from her seat and yelped when she landed.

"Elizabeth!"

She grimaced, wiggling her foot around. "It's not broken, it's not even sprained. I just landed a little cockeyed." She stepped experimentally. "It's fine, see?"

He shook his head. "Forty years. You'd think after forty years…"

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." He handed over the mushrooms and moved to the other half of the counter and began to sliver a particularly beautiful rib eye roast.

"What are you making?" she asked as she rinsed and patted dry handfuls of mushrooms. "And how do you want these cut?"

He pointed to the smaller mushrooms. "Quartered." He indicated the larger ones. "Do the best you can to match up."

"Gotcha."

"Boeuf Bourguignon," he said in answer to her first question.

She stopped working and looked at him in surprise. "Well! You have turned into quite the cook over the years!"

"Practice. You mean you weren't suitably impressed with the chicken I made a few weeks ago?"

"No, quite the contrary. I was exceedingly impressed—you weren't following any recipe, you threw things together and dinner was excellent." She looked over at what he was doing. "Are you just throwing things together again?"

"Heavens, no. This is one of my favorite recipes. Boeuf Bourguignon, baked butternut squash, green beans almondine—"

"I'm _very_ impressed." Her tone showed she wasn't teasing.

"I enjoy cooking. And baking," he confessed.

"When did this happen?" she laughed. "I remember—"

"Yes, I was rather inept in the kitchen when we first met."

"I wouldn't say inept. Just… unseasoned."

"Oh," he groaned.

"The beauty of a pun is in the 'oy' of the beholder."

"Elizabeth!"

Laughing, she turned back to her task. "I like having you here for dinner. And it's nice when you spend the night."

He smiled, a little complacently. "I like being here for dinner. Since I'm not fighting you for the covers, how would you even know I'm here at night or not?"

She stared at the cutting board, smiling faintly, her hands moving quickly. "There's just… a different feeling to the house when you're here." Despite her face being turned away, he could see the light blush. "A nice feeling."

He smiled and gently rescued her from the embarrassment. "Though it seems odd not having Rowena and Abigail in the living room tonight."

"Well, Abby has been tutoring Ro on her Organic Chem and AP Biology what feels like every night." He nodded; he'd put in his two cents' worth a couple of times through the room. "They're on trimester system, the trimester doesn't end for a couple of weeks, but she took the pre-test for chemistry this week and got a 98."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yep, so Rowena is starting repayment. She's giving Abby skating lessons."

He stopped slicing the beef. "You're joking."

"Nope. That was their agreement. Ro was already struggling with those classes when she started at NCIS, Abby offered to help her. So did someone else, I don't recall his name—but Abby and Ro have became thick as thieves from the get-go, it just seemed such a natural progression. The first time she came here, she saw the pictures of Ro from her skating days and—voila. The deal was struck."

"Wish we were there."

"Next time. Ro is going to Abby's Halloween party tomorrow, so they went out tonight. It was very handy, you guys all getting the afternoon off." She waved her knife at him. "You and Tori and I are on our own tomorrow for handing out candy to the little monsters."

He grinned. "I'm looking forward to decorating the house and seeing trick-or-treaters. I haven't had anyone ring my doorbell for at least four or five years."

"Well, there are a lot of kids around here, and they bring kids in from the subdivisions by the carload. I've got a ton of candy."

"I saw." He smiled. "Including chocolate covered mint patties."

"Those go out last. I always get rid of the candy I don't like, first."

They worked in companionable silence, broken by occasional questions or instructions. Casserole complete, Ducky set it on the back burner to simmer. "We don't need to do anything for the next few hours—"

"Except for answer the phone," Elizabeth laughed, grabbing the ringing instrument. "Hello? Hi, baby, Donald is—oh, shit!"

Ducky looked up in surprise.

"No, no, I totally agree. It's still under warranty. Damn straight, they're going to pick up the tab, and _no_ we are _not_ going to wait until Monday. Okay. Ha—I like that idea! Well, we'll save some for you, too. Now, Ro and Abby are at the rink—I know, I think it's great, too. Who knows… Okay, we see you when we see you." She hung up and turned to him with a disgusted look. "Six months. Six months! It's brand new!"

"What happened?"

"The Polin just quit."

"Polin?"

"Industrial oven. Won't turn on, won't heat—nothing. On a Friday night! Our two biggest days are Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning! God!" She paced around the kitchen. "And the distributor is saying he can't send a tech out until Monday. Tori is going after him with both barrels, she'll get him there by hook or by crook. Actually, she was saying she should sic Ziva on them—"

Ducky barked a laugh. "Not a bad thought."

"That's what I said."

He caught her on a pass by. "Calm down. Tori has things under control."

She took a deep breath. "You're right. She does." She leaned forward and rested her brow against his. "Poor Donald… it doesn't matter what decade, you walk into family angst every time."

"I don't mind in the least." He smiled broadly. "I adore your family. I'm so grateful to be adopted in."

"You're very welcome to our table."

"That's one thing I really did miss over the years," he said wistfully. "Only child, no children of my own…" He gave her a game smile. "We haven't managed it yet—but I told you that Rowena and Tori both want to come out to see Mother…"

"I'd like that, too," she said impulsively. "That is—would it be all right?" she added hesitantly. "I know you said her memory is a little… sketchy…"

That was a kind word for it.

"And she was a bit… upset… about what my mother did…"

Another understatement. "She's gotten better. It takes some explaining."

"But I remember you sending her a picture of our first Scrabble game, I always wanted to meet her… How was she when we—well, broke up, for lack of a better term?"

Oh, that had been ugly. "Well—she was a bit upset, as any parent would be when they feel their child has been slighted." And _that_ was the understatement of the day. "But if you'd like to see her—I'm sure we can muddle through something."

"Good."

"Wine?"

"Thank you."

He poured two glasses and followed her back to the living room. "Scrabble?" he teased.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully out of practice."

"As am I." He settled into a comfortable chair with a smile. "It's actually amusing," he said with a slight laugh. "I told you—Mother has been after me for years to settle down, give her grandchildren. The first time she met Abigail, she asked the poor girl if we were sleeping together."

Elizabeth choked on her wine. "Good God! I guess I don't have to worry about her being upset over eleven years between us!"

"Not likely. She's _still_ trying to get grandchildren at this late date." He shook his head. "I have visions of her conveniently forgetting that we haven't been married for forty years, claiming Tori for her own and deciding Rowena is her great-granddaughter." He laughed and looked over at Elizabeth.

His laughter abruptly cut off. She stared at him blankly, ashen and eyes wide. She searched his face as she had with every tentative kiss, but now with fear behind her gaze. He'd caught her completely off-guard—and it was completely by accident. As if in slow motion he set his glass on the table before he could drop it.

"And… she'd be right… wouldn't she?" He could feel the pulse pounding in his ears.

It seemed to take forever but finally she nodded. Twice. Once for Tori. Once for Rowena.

_His_ daughter.

_His_ granddaughter.

"Oh, my God."

* * *

><p>19<p> 


	20. Progression Focoso

**Chapter Twenty: Progression Focoso**

_**Progression:** The movement  
>of chords in succession.<br>__**Focoso:** Fiery; passionately._

* * *

><p><strong>October 30, 2009<strong>

Earlier that summer, Ducky had undergone his yearly physical and smugly reported back to the team that he had the heart of a man half his age. The recording physician had wanted him to visit his patients who were less than enthusiastic about exercising and eating properly, sort of a ghost of Christmas that could be—if they straightened up.

Good thing he was in decent shape; otherwise, he figured, he would have dropped dead from shock.

"Donald?" Elizabeth's voice was so small he could barely hear it.

"Does Tori know?" _Oh; __my __error. __I __must __be __dead. __How __else __could __I __sound __so __calm?_ "Tori… Victoria?"

"I named her for your mother." He could hear tears in her voice, heard her swallow hard_. __I __should __care,_ a part of his mind said sternly. _Why __don__'__t __I __care?_

"Does she know?"

"No."

_Tell __me! __Tell __me __everything!_ he wanted to scream. "So—Tish. Her mother. It's all a lie, she's living a lie?"

"Yes. And… no."

"Elizabeth, that's like being—" he cut himself off before he could say 'a little bit pregnant.' That brought him up a bit short. "Wait—Elizabeth… you were using birth control pills."

She winced faintly. "Yes."

A faint chill went down his spine. "You _were_, weren't you?"

She looked at him almost defiantly. "I wasn't lying, if that's what you—"

"No, no," he said hastily.

"Tish let me use her ID, if you were under 18 there was no way in hell you were getting a prescription from a clinic."

Tish. Of course.

"That was 1969, Donald. They learned things over the years. Three years later my doctor was warning me that antibiotics would make them completely ineffective." She looked at him meaningfully. "Three years later… my doctor was warning me that it took _three __months_ of regular use for them to _be_ effective in the first place."

He closed his eyes. "Oh… no." It had never occurred to him—back then—that her doctor might have missed a step or two. And from her comments, he thought she'd been using them for a while. Of course, if he'd known she was only sixteen, he wouldn't have made that assumption.

If he'd known she was only sixteen, he wouldn't be sitting where he was—literally.

"Oh… yes." She laughed shortly. "Hell, I got them before I knew you were going with us to Napa. I had this wild idea that I could go back to Scotland with you for the summer. That didn't happen. Obviously." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I took them for, what, a week before we all went up, another two weeks after that… I didn't even continue taking them after you left. I figured, 'why bother?' and chucked them in the trash. Look up naïve in the dictionary, my picture will be there."

Naïve. Yeah, you could say that.

He managed to look at her, forcing himself to remain unmoved by her tear-streaked face. "Tell me. Everything." His voice remained calm, neutral. "Tell me… _everything_."

She stared at him for an eternity, gathering her thoughts… perhaps gathering her courage. He waited, almost afraid to say anything. "When… my… mother… burned your letters… I was clueless. It never occurred to me that she would…" She trailed off. "So… I believed the lie. We all did, to some extent. I didn't _want_ to. My father didn't _want_ to. Neither did Tish. It was Tish who…" She flickered a mocking smile. "Once again, I was clueless. I took a full load of classes at C-SUN that summer, both sessions, something to keep me occupied while I waited for letters that would never come. I started regular classes in the fall… I was staying at Tish and Gene's when I had late classes, rather than drive all the way home. Tish… being the subtle girl she was… She looked at me one morning and asked, 'Have you started seeing a doctor yet?' And I… had… no idea what she meant." She tried to laugh and failed miserably.

"She knew."

"Oh, yeah. She knew. We did the math—it wasn't advanced calc. I was four months pregnant…" She closed her eyes. "She went home with me, she stood by me… _She_ _stood_ _by_ _me_ when I told my parents. Dad was… not happy."

_I can imagine._

"But everyone was calm. 'We'll work this out.' Very calm. _Too_ calm. Tish went home… and then my mom—oh, boy. She went crazy. Screaming, yelling crazy. Beyond crazy. Dad tried to calm her down, said we should find you—"

"Why didn't you?" He listened to his voice; amazingly, no anger—just a shadow of heartbreak.

She smiled bitterly. "My mother regretted her marriage for most of her life. The _idea_ of being married to a doctor was lovely. The _reality_ was something she didn't want to deal with. The long hours, the nights we ate dinner alone, the school recitals he missed… she had this vision of the perfect life, perfect husband, perfect children… and it didn't happen. She swore that Tish and I wouldn't marry doctors." She stared at him almost blankly. "She got her wish." She took a sip of her wine. "She sold Dad on the idea that since you had already abandoned me that dragging you to the altar would make for a miserable marriage for me. She made it sound like she was looking out for me. For _me!_ Dad… backed down. What else can you do when a hurricane hits? Mom—" Her hand trembled and she set her glass aside. "Mom demanded I get an abortion."

Even though he knew it hadn't happened, he shook with suppressed rage. _How __dare __she__…__!  
><em>_(Well—we are talking about her pregnant, teenage daughter, here.)__  
>Irrelevant. How <strong>dare<strong> she!_

"I… went… nuts. I tore out of there like the place was on fire. I don't remember how I got there, but I got back to Tish and Gene's, two, three in the morning. And Tish…" Fresh tears poured forth. She pressed her lips together until she could continue. "Tish stepped in front of the hurricane. Mom and Dad drove over in the morning; Tish suggested that I give the baby up for adoption. Nobody liked that idea. Mom didn't want me to be pregnant, period; Dad was still kind of in shock; and me, well, there was no way in hell I was going to give my child to strangers. Tish bent Mom around to her way of thinking and sent them home. I was ready to run as far and as fast as I could—and she said if I made a move toward the door, she'd deck me." She smiled faintly. "And she would have."

He almost smiled in response. Almost.

"She had thought it through. If _she_ adopted the baby, I could be there every day. I wouldn't be her mother—but at least I could be there, watch her grow up. She put some cold, hard facts in my hands about being a single mother—things were a lot different back then than they are now. And… I saw reason. Instead of having her adopt the baby, she started taking me to the doctor under her name. When Tori was born… her parents were listed as Patricia and Elbert Addams."

"Wait—Elbert? Gene—"

"Elbert Eugene. He was named after two uncles, I think."

_Oh, dear God. No wonder I couldn't track him down._

"Tori was born March 7. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen—" She broke off, undoubtedly realizing that she was rhapsodizing about something he had never seen, never would see, something he had been denied—something that hurt to hear. "I, ah, stayed until the end of summer. It was starting to get harder and harder, seeing people acknowledge Tish as her mother… Dad convinced me that it would be for the best if I moved back home, made a clean break. They had moved off the hill, over to Beverly Hills. Mom was worried that the neighbors might have figured out their unmarried daughter was pregnant, laugh at her behind closed doors—so she insisted they move."

He shook his head silently. She wouldn't move to preserve her son's sanity—but protecting her reputation, not even _Elizabeth__'__s_ reputation—was something else entirely.

"I was… lost. I went through the motions—went to school, took an insane load of classes to stay out of the house, got good grades, came home, went to bed… I probably said ten words a day, max. Depressed? Mmmh. Yeah. Every few weeks it would just get to be too much, I'd go see Tish and Gene… and Tori. She let me choose her name, it was the closest way I could be with you, to name her after your mother… She remembered me. She remembered me holding her, nursing her, rocking her to sleep those first months… I lived for those days. And one day Tish and I took Tori for a walk to get an ice cream—she was a year and a half or so, she kept trying to run ahead of us, damn, she was fast—"

_Like __trying __to __keep __Mother __in __corral_, he thought ruefully.

"She was trying to balance beam walk on those cement block stops in parking slots, saying, "Lookit! Lookit!"—then she slipped and fell—she wasn't badly hurt, but she got up, screaming, 'Mama!"… and she ran straight into Tish's arms." She wiped the tears from her cheeks, a futile gesture as they were followed by another flood. "Tish… was Mama. Not I. The next time Tish called, I couldn't come over because I had 'a final to study for.' I 'had a project due on Monday.' I had… whatever excuse I could find. My sister was a very bright woman, she stopped asking. And every night, I cried. I cried for you, I cried for our child, I cried for myself… until I couldn't cry any more.

"And that was when I met Walter."

It was like a dash of ice water in the face. Walter. The s-o-b who had used her as a punching bag for two years. No matter how hurt he was by what she had done, by what she was saying… she hadn't deserved _that_.

"He was taking extension classes, already had a degree in business, he was finishing up a degree in poli-sci, in California to study under someone who was _the_ expert in the Middle East. He worked in D.C., was just out there for a year… I had crammed every waking moment with classes, so I was about to graduate with my B.A…." She darted a quick glance at Ducky.

"Home ec," he said tonelessly.

She nodded. "I was the daughter of a doctor—one point. Dad had left USC, was doing research at CalTech and JPL on the space program, effects of weightlessness on the human body, et cetera—major point. I was 'an accomplished hostess,' just docile enough, just personable enough, the perfect Stepford Wife. Trifecta. For me… he was intelligent, he was charming, he was magnetic, he was good looking, he was everything you were—on the surface, anyway… but he wasn't you. There was no passion. No love. But I liked him well enough… and he lived on the other side of the country. I could let Tori grow up safe in her half of a lie while I lived in the other half three thousand miles away. I figured if I wasn't there… I could start over, I'd learn to love him." She took a sip of wine, staring into the glass. "We had an apartment in D.C. at the Watergate. We'd been back here for two months the first time he hit me. He had made plans for us to go out to dinner with a lobbyist and his wife and hadn't told me. I had fixed dinner; I was a little upset, but I didn't yell or scream or throw dishes… I just said, 'I really wish you had called before I started dinner'… and he hit me. They were very sympathetic when I told them about tripping over our neighbor's dog and falling down the stairs," she said almost dreamily.

"Why did you protect him?" It was something he had never understood with any abuse situation.

She looked him as though he were particularly slow and needed things to be spelled out. "Because I deserved it, Donald."

He stared at her in utter astonishment, mouth agape, then heard the mild mocking tone to her voice.

"I _deserved_ it. I had 'disappointed' my mother, oh, how I had 'disappointed' her… I should be on my knees every day saying '_thank_ _you__'_ to the heavens for allowing me to have such a fine, wonderful husband… I was lucky, lucky, _lucky_, and I shouldn't let a goddamned day go by that I didn't realize that. And if he knew, _if_ _he_ _knew_ that I was 'tainted goods,' that I'd had a 'bastard child'—" Her voice moved from mocking to bitter.

_And who left her 'tainted goods?' Look in the mirror._

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear they had conspired together to get him to marry me and give me a fitting punishment on earth. But I knew that wasn't true. I walked into a hell of my own making, eyes wide open."

"You didn't know he was abusive before you married…" _Did __you?_

"No. But I was well and thoroughly brainwashed. The first time he hit me, I covered for him… and I thought I deserved it. I had abandoned my child… I had abandoned the man I loved."

"Elizabeth, you—"

"No, Donald. Every day I told myself, 'Find him, talk to him, work things out,' and every day I sat there and did nothing. When I found out I was pregnant, even with my mother's words ringing in my ears, I said, 'Find him, talk to him, he at least deserves to know'… and _every_ _day_ _I __sat __there_. And did _nothing_. And every time he hit me, I thought, 'I deserve this. I don't deserve a man who loves me.'"

"Dear Lord."

"And… about a year into the marriage… I made the biggest mistake of my life." She thought for a moment. "Second or third, anyway. I told him about Tori." Seeing his horrified look, she quickly added, "Oh, no, no, not Tori specifically… just that I'd had a child and she had been adopted. Thank God he didn't figure out who she was." She looked aside. "He broke my jaw. And my collarbone. Dislocated my shoulder. Fractured my wrist. And other… things… And… I _really_ felt I deserved it."

He closed his eyes and gripped the armrests. _I __should __have __tried __harder __to __find __her._

"Those stairs at the Watergate were _so_ treacherous." She sighed. "And… I stayed," she said, before he could say anything. "I stayed… and I deserved it. Then… it was another year gone. I hadn't seen Tori since I had left California. We got the call… June. 1974. Gene had died. Back then, they called it a mugging. Today, they'd call it a carjacking. Semantics. Doesn't matter what you called it, Gene was dead. My sister was a widow and so in shock they should have buried her with him. It was like me, after I'd moved back home. The walking dead. She didn't even argue when Mom moved her back home. She said she could never go back to their house, it was too full of memories of Gene. Daddy sold it for her, Tish told him to put the money in a trust for Tori, and Tish… Tish went home to die."

_My God, the hell she went through…  
><em>_(She kept your child from you.)  
><em>_It was forty years ago. Things were different—  
><em>_(Things changed.)  
><em>_She couldn't have found me—  
><em>_(Maybe not then. But today? You can find almost anybody.)_

"When Tish called—" she dropped her head, staring at her hands lightly encircling her wine glass. "She said, 'I need you.' She had done so much for me, I was already ready to say I'd be on the next flight out and then she said, 'Your baby needs you.' Jesus. I grabbed the phone, called the travel agent—I was a shrew, screaming, 'I don't care what it takes, I don't care what airline, get me to Los Angeles _now_!' I knew Walter would have a fit, me leaving like that, and I couldn't have cared less. I got to LAX, there was a message waiting at the desk for me—Tish wanted to meet at the breakwater. I grabbed a hotel room by the airport, rented a car… She was down on the sand, sitting there while Tori went running around picking up shells and sand crabs and driftwood. She looked up at me—and for a minute it was like nobody was home. She looked so sad, so… empty. Then I saw her looking me over slowly. The black eye, the bruises, one arm bandaged, one in a cast… and she said, 'Jesus, Bizzy, nobody has the right to do that to you.' And for just a moment… I thought she might be right."

He sighed. "She was."

"She told me about Mom trying to steal away Tori and I said, 'Over my dead body.' She said…" She blinked rapidly for a moment. "She said, 'I know you'll protect her, even if you can't protect yourself. You're—you're a good mother because you only wanted what was best for her. And right now, going away with you is what's best for her. I know you'll protect your baby.'" She barely got the words out around her tears.

He wanted to go to her, hold her—but he didn't want to stop her from finishing, no matter how tough it was for either of them. "You said she went to an attorney…?"

Elizabeth nodded. "That's why we met where we did. The lawyer was in Torrance. He saw what I looked like, he kind of hesitated—can't say I blamed him. I told him Walter was going to be gone when I got home; after hearing my mother was a manipulative alcoholic—this is right when they were starting to acknowledge that emotional abuse could be as bad as physical—he wrote up the order, said he'd call the next day after seeing the judge. I sat next to the phone from three a.m., waiting for Tish to call. She called at noon, she drove down with Tori—oh, it was going to be a grand adventure, she was going to live with Auntie Bizzy and get to see the White House, the cherry blossoms—she'd packed Tori's favorite toys and books, said she was growing so big that we'd have to get her all new clothing… it made for less to pack. She was so excited. I honestly thought it would only be a few months. Tish was always able to pull herself together…

"We were living here." She glanced around the house. "We'd only been here a couple of months, so it didn't really have many bad associations for me. We landed, drove here—Walter was waiting. I can't remember being so scared. I could see he was going to go off—I took Tori upstairs, put her to bed, came back down and the first thing he said was, 'Don't lie to me, that's your bastard brat, isn't it?'"

Ducky ground his teeth. "Damn him—"

"He has been, I'm sure. The moment he said that, all I could hear was Tish in my ear, saying, '_Protect __your __baby. __Protect __your __baby._' I said, '_She_ is my sister's daughter and _she_ is staying while Tish recovers from Gene's death. And _you_ are going.' He looked at me like I was speaking Martian. 'I know you always have a suitcase in the car for emergencies, go stay at a hotel; I'll have your things packed by morning. I called a lawyer while I was in California.' That part was a lie, but he didn't know it." She looked up, and her gaze was strong. "He knew I meant it. No pleas, no negotiations. So he gave me this smirk and said, 'Go ahead. You try to kick me out and within a week everyone on the Beltway will know about your little bastard.'"

_You're lucky you're dead, you jackass._

"I just shrugged and said, 'Go ahead. I can guess at six others. But if you do, I'll let them know where every bruise, every broken bone came from.' 'So what? You told the doctors you fell down the stairs, fell off a ladder—'"

Ducky couldn't help but flinch.

"'And every single time, they asked me, 'Are you _sure_ that's what happened?' They knew I was lying. They'll back me when I finally tell the truth.' I could tell he was wavering. 'You've traded for two years on me being the perfect Washington hostess. Guess what? It's _me_ they like. Not you. You can tell them about my daughter and they won't give a damn. If I tell about you beating the shit out of me for two and a half years… they _will_.' He could see his career going right down the toilet. All I could hear was, '_Protect __your __baby. __Protect __your __baby._' I told him he was going to walk out, not contest the divorce, let me have the house, and give me a very comfortable settlement… and I'd shut up. If he tried to hurt Tori or me physically, financially, emotionally, in any way, ever again—I'd blow him out of the water. I had never, never spoken to him like that—"

_I __can __believe __that_, he thought grimly, remembering her x-rays. Those weren't the pictures of a woman who had defended herself.

"Tish called, told me Mom had gone right over the edge and made me swear to never back down. A couple of days later, she called again, she was crying so hard I couldn't understand her. She had gotten a package—something Gene had ordered for their anniversary, when he didn't pick it up, the company tried delivering it to the house, finally tracked her to Mom and Dad's…" She sighed. "It was a ring. Tori wears it. It has an opal and the words 'Together Forever' on the inside. Tish loved opals… She talked to Tori that night, Tori told her all about seeing a production of Cinderella at the park—and asked if she was going to come live with us. 'As soon as I'm better, baby.' And the next day… Daddy called and said she was dead."

"It was suicide, then?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I really don't. I really think it was by accident—as I said, it was that she just didn't want to be alive any more, not so much that she wanted to be dead. But now I had Mom trying to get Tori back, saying Tish wasn't in her right mind. I was frantic. I'd just talked to an attorney, we hadn't even started divorce proceedings—I was scared to death. I wanted to scoop her up and run as far away as I could. And in the back of my head, I kept thinking, 'If I could find Donald, everything would be all right. I know we can work it out, whatever the problem was.'"

Ducky took a steadying breath. _Dear_ _God__… __I __wish __you __had __found __me._

"This time—this time Daddy stood up to her. He said Tish knew what she was doing, that Tori belonged with me for a dozen different reasons. Then he struck at her vanity—if she fought to get her back, it was bound to come out that I was her real mother… and what would people say! Oh, _my_."

Ducky couldn't help but smile—a very slight bit. "Brilliant move on his part."

"I thought so. So… Mom simmered down. Walter made some ugly noises, but I never backed down. Not once. Every time I threatened to tell how he'd hurt me… he shut up. His lawyer kept saying, 'Are you crazy? You're giving her everything!' And Walter was trying to look so good, 'Oh, she's taking care of her dead sister's child, just because we couldn't work things out, the poor tyke needs to be looked after.'"

_I think I may vomit._

"Things quieted down. We settled into… living a lie. I kept telling myself, 'Someday, I'll tell her the truth.' Someday… never came. I certainly wasn't going to tell her right after Tish died—"

"God, no"

"She'd just lost her father, then her mother… and all I could do was love her, love her, _love_ _her_ with all my heart, Auntie Lizzie who swore to her mother that she'd always be there, always take care of her… I thought, 'When she's older, I'll tell her.' She got older… and I didn't tell her. Junior high, high school—it's a mess already without adding that to the mix. So… it never happened. The family came out for a trip when Dad retired—they hadn't diagnosed him with MD yet, but he knew his vision was getting too bad to continue working. That was when… well, Tori told me that she gave you a blow-by-blow of the dinner from hell."

"Yes, she said it was rather a—" he glanced toward the library where Elizabeth and her mother had had their showdown. "—stressful evening."

"You have no idea. They left, and I sat there almost screaming in tears. All those years, you and I could have been together. You and _Tori_ and I. She would have had her mother, her father, we would have…" she trailed off. "I never could figure out what made Walter so mean, so vicious. It was like it was part of his DNA. But my mother—those were conscious choices she made."

_Conscious __choices __you __made, __too._ The little demon in the corner of his mind wouldn't shut up.

"Tori—I told her about you, how much I had loved you, what her grandmother had done." She laughed shortly. "That girl—she wanted to march over to their hotel and read her the riot act. She's very protective of the people she loves. She learned that from Tish." She looked him in the eye. "She _got_ that from you." When he didn't answer, she sighed. "She told me I should find you, tell you what had happened—and part of me wanted to, so very much."

"Why didn't you?" He managed a shuddering breath. _All __those __years__—__gone, __never __to __be __again__…_ "Why?"

"Donald… I thought it was for the best. I figured you had gone on, gotten married, had children of your own… Part of me said I should find you, that you had a right to know, that Tori had a right to know—and part of me said, 'No.' That I'd be disrupting your life, possibly ruining your marriage, damaging your relationship with your children… It was a risk I didn't want to take. I didn't want to hurt you. Again."

"I'm hurting now, Elizabeth." He couldn't stop the words from falling out.

"Donald… I am so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. _Ever_. Every day for twenty-five years I've asked myself if I did the right thing in not looking for you right then and there. Every day I'd think, 'Is he happy? Probably. Will I hurt him?'" She was silent a long moment. "'Probably.' So I hid the hurt inside, and I prayed that if you ever found out what my mother had done that you'd forgive me for my part all these years. The lie… became my life. Sometimes—oh, sometimes Tori would laugh at something and I'd hear your voice in her laughter. Rowena—she has your eyes, and a wicked wit, they sparkle just like yours did when she makes an odious pun… Drew would clean my clock at Scrabble and I'd think, 'Oh, he should play against Donald.'" She caught a tiny breath, perhaps a sob. "Against his grandfather." Now she did cry. "Donald… I am sorry, I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry, _I __kept __them __from __you_—"

He slowly stood up feeling incredibly ancient. He looked at her; instead of seeing the middle-aged woman she had become, he saw the young woman she had been, and for an instant wanted to fly to her side and hold her. But he couldn't. Not yet.

Possibly not ever.

He walked blindly out of the room, walking through the kitchen and out to the back yard. He made his way to the large bench swing and sat down, hard. Odd; it wasn't that dark, the sun hadn't really set. He instinctively glanced at his watch; dear God, that had only been a half hour? Only a half hour, and now he was left with a lifetime of hurt and anger in his heart.

He stared at the sturdy children's play set, not really seeing it. _Tori __might __have __played __on __that_, he thought. _Tori. __Victoria. __My __daughter. __My __child. __**My **__**child**__. __Or __did __she __build __it __for __her __children?__ For __Andrew, __for __Bronwyn__—__for __Rowena? __For __my __grandchildren?_ "Oh, God," he groaned softly. _My __**grandchildren**__._ Now he could understand his mother's ache all these years.

He closed his eyes against the pain. Empty arms longing to hold his baby, a baby no more. _How __could __she __keep __me __from __her, __keep __me __from __my __own __child?_

"_Daddy, tell me a story!"  
><em>"_Please, please may I stay up late?"  
><em>"_Daddy, I want you to take me trick or treating!"  
><em>"_Will you help my troop with their First Aid badges? Thank you, Daddy!"  
><em>"_Oh, Daddy, all the girls wear skirts this short…"  
><em>"_Grandpa, Grandpa, take us for an ice cream, please?"  
><em>"_Grandpa, did Grandmother really play the bagpipes?"  
><em>"_I love you, Daddy."  
><em>"_I love you, Grandpa."_

He hugged himself, rocking slowly. _I __want __it,_ he thought angrily. _I __want __it __back. __I __want __back __what __was __stolen __from __me._

_Not happening._

He could almost hear Abby's voice in the words. _Not __happening._

So many times had he counseled others, "The past is in the past. Learn to live with it and move on."

But how many times had the past involved discovering a child? Grandchildren? That he had been told… none.

Elizabeth's own accusations filled his mind. She could have found him. She should have found him. It was just so much easier to fall into the lie, to pretend he had never existed…

_Now, __that__'__s __taking __it __a __bit __far, __Mallard,_ he thought sharply. _She __couldn__'__t __very __well __pretend __you __didn__'__t __exist__—__she __said __herself __she __thought __of __you __every __day, __she __never __stopped __wearing __that __silly __bracelet. __She __had __your __child, __for __God__'__s __sake! __She __knew __you __existed__…_

… _but she still didn't find you._

_She sure doesn't work for the alumnae association._

He laughed shortly at the thought.

"_Things were a lot different back then than they are now."_

He forced himself to look back forty years, not with the microscope reserved for his life but with the camera recording the movie of the world. 1969. Free love ruled the world of anyone under 30. But free love came with a price. A decade earlier, parents would have hunted down the errant young man or shipped the disgraced young woman off 'to grandma's for the summer.' He had known a few young women in his youth who had bucked the system, not married and raised the child, alone. A part of him had been a little scandalized, but it had still bothered him that society looked more down their noses at the innocent children than the parents who had made the choice.

_Hitting a little close?_

Realistically, what could she have done? Her father had tried tracking him down through the University, long before she had discovered she was pregnant. Citing privacy in those pre-Internet days, they had deflected his inquiries. There were several Mallards in the directory in England back then; the only "D" was a Daphne, who had been amazingly tolerant of a bored ten-year-old boy who had spent an afternoon calling all the Mallards and Kittridges in the hopes of finding a long-lost and interesting relation. Even if they had found (God forbid) his mother or his father (God forbid—twice over), it would have done little good—he had made good on his promise and gone over to serve in Viet Nam, two tours, followed by airlift assistance to bring orphans to new homes.

How ironic.

_Put __yourself __in __her __shoes_, he argued. _Sixteen __years __old._ (He reflexively winced.) _Pregnant. __Unmarried. __A __mother __trying __to __force __you __into __an __abortion, __a __father __trying __to __figure __out __what __the __hell __happened __and __how __he __could __fix __it. __A __sister __doing __her __damnedest __to __help __you __make __the __best __choice. __And __the __future __yawning __in __front __of __you, __a __future __you __see __with __disapproval, __castigation __and __exile__… __at __best. __A __lifetime __of __punishment __for __having __sex __with __a __man __you __loved, __a __man __you __planned __to __marry._

That she had come through it as well as she had was a miracle.

He wasn't through being angry. Or hurt. Or mourning for what he could never have. But he'd have to be completely heartless to ignore what Elizabeth had endured. _'__You __can__'__t __live __in __the __past,__'_ his beloved daughter had said. And what had he said in reply? _"__But __you __can __learn __from __it.__"_

Learn from it.

He stared at the swings, standing still in the early twilight, the short slide glinting in the shadows, the wooden castle and bridge that fairly screamed for playtime. "Push me higher!" "Watch me, watch me!" "No, I get to be the princess 'cause I'm in the costume!" And through it all, Aunt Lizzie pushing higher, watching, watching, Nana sewing new costumes so that all could play in the castle… watching, watching…

Can you change anything that happened?

_No._

Can you change the future?

_Yes_.

Do you want your daughter in your life? Your grandchildren?

_God, yes._

Then do what Ziva suggested a month ago. Forgive her.

(Good gracious, did Ziva know? No, no, of course not. If Elizabeth had been willing to lie about Bronwyn while half under anesthesia, she would have never let go of a secret she'd carried for forty years.

Would she?)

He'd never ask. (And Ziva would never tell.)

_Forgive her._

_And… forgive yourself while you're at it._

He didn't look around at the sound of footsteps softly crunching leaves on the grass. He knew it would be Elizabeth.

He was correct. She stepped up and stood off to the side, a coverlet draped over her folded arms. "It's… getting chilly." He nodded silently, not trusting his voice. She leaned forward hesitantly; when he didn't object, she began to drape the heavy blanket over him. He looked up into her dark eyes, made almost purple by the lowering sun, and saw concern and fear… and love, love for him, their child, their grandchildren. And what did she see in his eyes?

_Forgive me._

Both moved as one. The arms of one reached for the other; the tears of each wet the cheeks of another. They held each other, rocked each other, loved each other… Time compressed and they were one—again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," warred with, "It'll be all right, everything will be all right."

Ducky turned so that she could sit closer, both covered with the heavy blanket, her head resting on his shoulder, and gently stroked her hair. "It will be all right," he promised again, over and over. Somehow it would be.

"Please forgive me…"

He turned her face to look up at him. "You did… what you had to do." He brushed a thumb over her cheek. "You kept your promise to Tish. You protected your baby. The best that you could. Do I wish I'd been there? Of course I do. _Of_ _course_ I do. But she is an intelligent, confident, talented young woman, kind and gentle and caring, a good mother—and that's because of you." He kissed her lightly—and for the first time in months, didn't see trepidation in her eyes. For the first time… he saw hope. "You kept your promise to Tish. It's time I did, too."

"What do you mean?" Her voice was tentative, not wanting to rock the boat.

"Do you remember the night your parents had a really dreadful fight?"

"How could I forget? I was making plans to stow away in your luggage."

"I wish you had," he murmured. "Tish… well, she essentially asked me if my intentions toward you were serious."

"Oh, dear God." Elizabeth rolled her eyes slightly.

"I promised her that I'd take care of you. Protect you." He cupped her cheek in a hand. "I failed that promise."

"Donald—"

He shook his head. "Why… doesn't matter. I did. From here on out… I will be here. I will protect you."

"She never believed it. She never really believed what Mom said, that you had walked away. But she couldn't prove anything. I guess… she was remembering that promise."

He picked up her hand and lightly kissed the cold metal on her wrist. "Please… don't climb on any more damned stepladders."

She laughed. "I think I'm safe so long as you don't step back into my life after another forty year gap."

"Not a chance. I'm not going anywhere."

She stared at his chest, eyes riveted on the buttons. "I wish I could change everything."

"But you can't. Neither can I." He took a slow breath. "I—won't say that I'm not still angry. Or hurt. Because I am. And I know, on all levels, that the blame rests squarely with your mother. But—she's not here." He shook his head. "However… you are. And while I spend every day using science and logic and investigation skills, I can't promise not to… blame… the wrong person. And if that happens—"

"I understand."

"I don't want to hurt you." He stroked her cheek. "You've been hurt so much already."

"So have you," she said, her voice small. She hesitated for a moment, then she reached down into her skirt pocket, withdrawing an envelope with an old Fotomat logo on it. "Tish… sent me these the day I flew back with Tori. It arrived the day Daddy called to tell me she had died. I didn't open it for a couple of months, forgot all about it…" She didn't open the envelope. "I don't know if you want to see them… Tish had planned on telling Tori the truth when she got older. She took a lot of pictures of me—while I was… pregnant. I didn't want her to, but, well, Tish is Tish. She said someday I might want them and it would be my great loss if they weren't there as an option." She looked into his eyes for an answer.

He wasn't sure he could face this piece of the past. What she had told him was too fresh, too new… Regardless, he nodded.

She saw the hesitation in his response. "You don't have to—"

"No, no." He ran the tip of his tongue across dry lips. "I'd like to."

"They're in order." She pulled out the pictures and handed him a stack of slick pictures about four inches thick. Elizabeth wasn't the only one keeping the photography industry going.

The first photo was quintessential Elizabeth, working in the kitchen; if he didn't know she was pregnant, he wouldn't have guessed. Her abdomen was only slightly rounded, what the celebrity gawkers called "baby bump." Her looking-up-from-a-ducked-down-face look was one of mild irritation, but she had a smile nonetheless. Picture after picture; Elizabeth standing on the redwood deck with Tish (apparently Gene was in on the plot to photograph Elizabeth anytime, anywhere). Elizabeth studying in the backyard, Elizabeth curling (only half-successfully) in an easy chair… each picture showing her with a larger and larger belly. As the pictures progressed, her irritation faded—either she had realized Tish's goal was a worthy one, or she got tired of arguing.

"It took me about a month to get used to just the concept of being pregnant—I mean, obviously, I was, but it's a pretty overwhelming thing to wrap your mind around."

"I can—no… actually, I _can__'__t_ imagine."

"Once I knew Mom was… mmmh, held at bay, I started to relax and… I started to enjoy it. The first time I felt her move, the first time I was sure it was her, not just, well, indigestion—" she smiled. "I think I sat there for a half hour, not moving. Just… amazed."

And there were now pictures of her holding her growing stomach, at first shyly then with more interest and affection, as though welcoming the coming baby. "Oh, dear God, what possessed you?" he laughed.

"Yeah, beanbag chairs need a warning label." Almost a dozen pictures of Elizabeth trying to get out of a large beanbag chair—first on her own, then with Tish helping. Next Madalena tried to help, then Gene, with Elizabeth glaring at the changing photographer more and more. Gene and Tish working together finally had success; a number of photos were a bit blurry—Ducky had to admit he would have been having a hard time keeping the camera focused, too. "I was starting to worry that I'd deliver in that chair. Of course, it would have been more comfortable…"

"Oh, God," he gasped involuntarily. Tish hadn't taken pictures of the actual delivery—he wasn't sure if he was grateful or disappointed—but there she was. His daughter, moments after being born. It always stunned him how something so tiny, so perfect could even exist. "She's beautiful. Just... beautiful." He didn't bother to wipe away the tears. "So are you."

"Even though I knew Tish was going to raise her… that was the happiest moment of my life. I wished you had been there. I knew that if you could just see her…" she trailed off.

He nodded silently, knowing his voice would break. He could stare at that picture forever and not have it be enough. Furrowed brow, eyes squeezed shut, tiny hands clenched into fists she lay on Elizabeth's chest, head pillowed on a comforting breast.

"That was how she slept a lot of the time," Elizabeth said wistfully. "When she was a baby, we slept in the same bed—if she woke up at night I'd just nurse her and let her fall back asleep. When she got a little older, she'd crawl around and if she found me lying down she'd pull my hand until I picked her up and plopped her on my chest then—whammo, out like a light." She sighed. "She was such a good baby…"

He smiled at the succession of pictures—Tori in a sun suit, playing at the beach, Elizabeth and Tish dancing in attendance. Tori, asleep on Elizabeth's chest, thumb stuck in her mouth. Tori, mouth open and eyes wide as Elizabeth played peek-a-boo and Tish held her sides, laughing. "She was lucky to have you. Both of you."

"I felt so… needed." Her voice was the barest whisper.

He sighed. "You still are." He stared at the last picture: Tori's second birthday. Elizabeth had started to distance herself, but any fool could look at the picture and see the longing and love in her face as she looked at Tori. His daughter was attempting to consume her slice of cake via osmosis, and ice cream ran in rivulets down her face. Still, she wore an ear-to-ear grin. "When will you tell her?" Not if… when.

The silence stretched for minutes. Finally he looked at her, her eyes locked on the first photograph from years ago. "Donald…" she whispered. "I'm… I'm so scared."

"I'm here."

She shook her head slowly. "It's bad enough that I didn't tell you… but you weren't here. It's hard to tell someone something if they aren't there to tell them. But Tori… she's here. She's been here, with me, for almost her whole life. I have no excuse. No excuse. She's going to hate me." Fresh tears fell from her eyes.

"No, she won't—"

"Yes, she will!" She was actually sobbing. "Donald, I can't lose her!"

"You won't," he said firmly. "Tori isn't the type to enact Wagnerian dramas. She's pragmatic. Sensible. She might be a little hurt, but probably because you took so long to tell her. Not from what you have to say. She won't turn her back on you. She loves you too much."

Elizabeth managed a tremulous nod and wiped the base of her hand against her eyes, laughing when he shoved a handkerchief into her hand. "When did you start carrying a handkerchief?" she managed to get out.

"It's handy," he said with a smile.

She tweaked his bowtie. "Part of your sartorial splendor."

"A woman who wears Victorian dresses can't make many fashion complaints."

"Yeah, well, that's a costume." She ran a finger beneath one of his braces and he shifted slightly. It was an unnervingly intimate gesture. "You've changed."

"So have you." He touched a fingertip to her chin.

"Hopefully… for the better."

"Certainly not the worse." Hesitantly he leaned over and kissed her on first one cheek, then the other, tasting the remnants of her tears. Staring into her eyes was like a trip through time. He could remember every detail of the moment he met her as though he were looking at a photograph. Swirls of colored gauze skirts, matching top with beads and bits of mirror, hair drawn back in a single plait, and a shy, gentle smile. The family dog cavorting about the room, the bar in the corner, the sofa upholstered in pale cream, the chairs in a matching print, the tile floor… everything. "You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen," he sighed. "You did then. You still do."

"I used to stare into you eyes and it was like a crystal ball," she said wistfully. "I could see you, me, us together…" She trailed off.

And how different that vision turned out to be. "It's not too late for a happy ending."

"Promise?"

"Promise," he said recklessly.

"No—no, I'm too heavy," she protested as he pulled her to sit on his lap.

"No, you're not," he said firmly. Yes, now she had the sweet curves of a woman who had carried and borne a child—_his_ child—but she was an inch or two shorter, too. He couldn't help but smile; _so __am __I_. "You're perfect."

She smiled down at him. "Perfect?" she said softly.

"Mm-hmm." He smiled when she brushed her lips against his. "I remember the first time I kissed you."

"Moody Blues concert."

"But _you_… kissed _me_ the week before."

She looked shocked. "I did _not_ kiss you first!"

"Oh, yes, you did." He grinned. "We were in the kitchen, you had fixed the most incredible Italian dinner—"

She was listening, thinking, remembering. "Wait… a… minute…"

He nodded and pointed to his cheek. "Right here."

"That doesn't count."

"It did for me. Oh, it was all I could do to force myself to wash that cheek that night."

She laughed and blushed. "Now you're being silly."

"I tended to be silly around you." Her second kiss was firmer, more intense, something he'd been secretly hoping to feel again over the past couple of weeks. "I'm far more serious, now."

"No more peace signs on your cheeks?"

"Nope." Oh, yeah; some things didn't change. She was getting more adventurous with each kiss, her lips a warm caress, her tongue a gentle tease. He slipped his fingers through her hair, keeping her willing mouth against his.

"No more making love in the pool?"

"You don't have a pool."

"I'll build one."

"Beds are more comfortable."

"Your place or mine?"

He blinked, startled. Did she really…?

She looked at him hesitantly. "It's okay," she said quickly. "I understand."

"No, no—"

"It's like _Robin __and __Marian_." She forced a laugh. "They've been apart for years, Marian is now an abbess…" she trailed off.

Ducky remembered the film well. It was a favorite of his—a beautiful film, but incredibly sad. "Marian asks him, 'Am I anything you'd want?' And Robin says, 'I've never kissed a member of the clergy.'"

"'Do you suppose it's a sin?'" she finished the line.

He cupped her cheek in his hand. "You aren't a member of the clergy," he said. "But you are all I've _ever_ wanted."

"The girls… won't be home for another couple of hours…?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. No… It's been too long. The times we shared there was no rush. No hurry. I'm not going to make love with you with one eye on the clock. When I have the time to hold you… touch you… kiss you…" He barely touched his lips to hers. "I want to make love with you at night… and wake up to you in the morning."

She nodded briefly. "Okay. We'll wait." She nestled her head on his shoulder. "Hold me… and I'll wait."

/ / /

"What smells so good?"

Ducky exchanged smiles with Elizabeth at Rowena's yell from the front door. "Dinner!" he called out.

"Whoo-hoo!" That was definitely an Abby noise. "Ducky's in the kitchen!"

Elizabeth grinned. "You have a reputation."

"I try." He gave her a wicked look.

"Donald!" she laughed. "You're incorrigible!"

"Stop incorriging me."

She groaned and turned back to the squash she was slicing under his direction.

"Ooh! Squish!" Abby said delightedly as they came into the kitchen. She turned to Rowena. "Ducky makes the best squish for Turkey Day!" She whirled on him. "Ro's part of the team, she's coming to Thanksgiving, right?" She turned back on Rowena. "Ducky always does Thanksgiving dinner, nobody on our team really has family, well, not _much_ family, and he is an _awesome_ cook, we always go to his house—"

Oooh; awkward.

"Well, actually we're having Thanksgiving dinner here this year," Elizabeth said brightly. "And if Rowena and Donald haven't gotten around to inviting you and the rest of the team—shame on them and consider this your official invitation and I rely on you to pass the word."

Abby looked embarrassed. "Oh, gosh, Liz, that'll be way too many—"

"Nonsense." She looked at Abby firmly. "Look at this kitchen. Double ovens, even. I live for holiday crowds. The best Thanksgiving—"

Rowena started to laugh. "Holy crap, I remember."

"Watch your mouth, young lady." Ducky couldn't help but grin at Elizabeth's comment and Rowena's eye roll.

"It was the Thanksgiving before Mom and Dad split up. We had… Nana. Mom. Dad. Dad's parents—that was, like, right before they died. Auntie Gin, Uncle Joe, their five kids, Uncle Sandy—Uncle Den and Aunt Mad came out. Us three kids. Cherie—she was my old skating coach. Her two kids. My best friend at the time—Shanika. Drew's science fair partner."

Elizabeth was counting on her fingers and frowned. "We're forgetting someone, I remember it being a perfect twenty-five." She snapped her fingers. "Patty and Marcie."

"Oh, yeah! Who can forget Aunt Patty bringing her girlfriend and 'coming out' right before dinner."

Abby tried to contain her surprise. "Ah… oh."

"Dad's side of the family tends toward the dramatic."

"It's been pretty quiet since the divorce. Sam still joins us sometimes, but he's the only one of late." Elizabeth patted Abby on the shoulder. "So you'll have to bring the entire agency before you can come close to rattling my cage."

"And we always go skating afterward. Well, almost always."

Abby grinned. "Oh, I cannot wait to see Gibbs on skates!" She clapped her hands like a child. "Or Palmer! Or Ziva! Ziva, yeah! Do they have ice rinks in Israel?"

"Well, they have an Olympic team, I guess so," Rowena said reasonably.

"Ducky, you should see this girl skate! Oh, my God! She does things that defy gravity! Okay, I understand genetics, I mean, her grandmother was this kickass skater—"

He couldn't bite back a slight snort. Elizabeth on skates was… amusing. Belatedly he realized that she meant Tish—Tori's 'mother'—and turned it into a slight cough. He glanced up and caught sight of Rowena watching him. Her head was cocked slightly; she glanced at Elizabeth, looked back and stared at him for a long moment… then smiled. Very slight, very gentle, barely there—and he knew. He _knew_, and almost stepped back in shock.

_She knows the truth._

"Well, Abby is a great student," Rowena said with a cheerful smile. "She understands the physics behind the moves."

"And her coach was there, there's going to be a show—"

"Shh!" Rowena hissed and Abby clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Show?" Elizabeth looked up in interest.

"Maybe," Rowena said firmly. "If I have the time. It's the Un-Christmas Show."

"Oh, you always had fun doing that!"

"You wanted to look at the old shows?" Rowena prompted Abby. "How long til dinner?"

"Half hour," Ducky said automatically. _She __knows __the __truth. __She __knows._

"Coolio." Grabbing Abby's hand she pulled her toward the living room, pausing in the doorway for one last, split-second glance at him.

_She knows._

"Donald?"

_She knows. **She****'****s ****my ****granddaughter**… and she **knows**._

"Donald…?" Elizabeth laid a hand on his arm, eyes concerned. "What's wrong?"

"She knows," he finally managed to whisper.

"Who knows? What?"

"Rowena." He swallowed. "She knows. She knows I'm… her grandfather."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Impossible," she said with polite firmness.

He shook his own head in reply. "She knows. I could see it in her eyes."

"You're just seeing what you want to see."

"No." He closed his eyes and sighed. "It… it makes sense, now. At the hospital—she had this funny smile when she heard my name. The way she looked at me. The way she hugged me."

Elizabeth had paled. "No. How could she?"

"I don't know." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know… but she does."

A laugh from the living room startled them both. "Yeah, sure, if I can get six other skaters in the next two months!" Rowena laughed.

"You all look like snowflakes, it's so pretty!" Abby was almost whining.

"Yeah, and _Nights __in __White __Satin_ lasts seven and a half minutes! I'm out of shape."

"Ha! You skated to _Anything __for __Love_ today and I know that sucker is over ten."

"It wasn't a choreographed routine—and I almost needed oxygen!"

"I'll… talk to Tori," Elizabeth said dully. She shivered. "Soon."

He could almost taste her fear. He cupped her face in his hands and gave her a long kiss. "And I will be right by your side," he promised. "Just like Tish was."

She slipped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest. "I miss her so much."

"She'll be here with us. She's been with you all these years—she won't leave you now."

"The whole time I was growing up, I was so jealous of my sister. She was… perfect. No matter what she did, she did it well. No matter what I did, I did it wrong. But in spite of that, I loved her. I worshiped her. When she finally rebelled, threw off her chains, and mother focused on me, I thought she hated me. I never realized how much she loved me… until it was almost too late."

He stroked her hair. "And Tori had the love of both of you. I'd call her… one lucky young lady." He hugged her tightly. "It will be all right."

"Promise?" she asked as she had a couple of hours before.

"Promise."

* * *

><p>20<p> 


	21. Verismo Act One

**Chapter Twenty-One: Verismo (Act One)**

_**Verismo:** A form of  
>Italian opera beginning<br>at the end of the  
>19th century. The setting<br>is contemporary to the  
>composer's own time,<br>and the characters are  
>modeled after every day life.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>October 31, 2009<strong>

"Your place is gonna get egged," Rowena predicted.

"Now why—" Ducky reached up and handed her the end of the mesh of black and purple lights and began to carefully unroll the spindle that kept it from being a tangled mess. "—would you say that?"

"If you're here handing out candy with Mom and Nana, your place is going to be fair game." She hooked the lights on several clips to her left, then leaned over to get the hooks further down the eaves.

"Watch out!" He had visions of rushing her to the emergency room with a split skull and shivered. How had Tori survived rearing three children? (How had Elizabeth survived _four_?)

"I'm fine, I'm fine, it's an A-frame ladder," she sighed, scrambling down to the ground and dragging it several feet to one side and hurrying back up. "I've been doing this for years."

"I should—"

She looked down at him from her perch. "Because you're a _boy_?" she teased. "Ducky, the only person taller than me—"

"Than I."

"Than _I_," she said with exaggerated patience, "is Dad. And his idea of decorating was to put up Christmas lights and never take 'em down."

_Sounds __like __a __good __idea __to __me._ He sighed. But if it made her happy to decorate the house for Halloween or Christmas or Arbor Day, for that matter, he would fetch and carry lights, cobwebs, spiders or whatever she wanted. As bad as a child with a new toy, he wanted to spend every waking moment around Tori and Rowena, reveling in being a father and grandfather—even if they didn't know it.

_Three __weeks! __Three __weeks __and __I__'__ll __meet __Bronwyn __and __Andrew!__Dear __God, __I __can__'__t __wait._ He couldn't fight back the grin. _I__'__m __a __grandfather. __A __**grandfather**__!_

"Boy, you're in a good mood," Rowena laughed at him. "Come on, feed me the lights!"

He quickly unrolled the wire webbing. "It's the company I keep."

"Ha. You just want to keep me home from that party."

"No, but—" He frowned. He adored Abigail without reservation. But occasionally her judgment was… questionable. She was twice Rowena's age. Rowena's maturity (and Abby's occasional lack thereof) helped them get along, but Rowena was a child. Sixteen. A babe in the woods, really.

_And you have absolutely no call to order her around or place any restrictions on her._

"I just… Be careful," he finally managed.

She hopped from the bottom rung—but instead of moving the ladder to the last section of the eaves she stood in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. "I will be," she promised. "I've met a lot of Abby's friends already. There's only going to be, like, four of us under twenty-one at the party. I've already heard from, God, I don't know how many people if I even _look_ at anything alcoholic they're going to lock me in the closet and not let me out until the party's over." She cocked her head to one side. "Sister Rosita is going to be there. She told Abby weeks ago that she's going to be the chaperone. We have a _nun_ chaperoning her Halloween party, for Pete's sake. If I get into any trouble it's because I've said something sacrilegious."

He laughed. "Okay… but if anything happens, if you start to feel even slightly uncomfortable—"

Her smile softened. "I'll call. Mom or Nana or you. I promise." She leaned over and gave him a long hug. "Thank you for being worried. I don't mind it from you as much as I would form Mom. But it's cool, really, everything will be fine, I'm spending the night at Abby's, we're going to church tomorrow—"

He blinked. "I—thought you were Buddhist?"

She shrugged. "Nominally. But I'm open to new experiences!" She smiled brightly and pulled the ladder past the front door.

/ / /

Tori pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes tiredly. "I'm getting old."

Elizabeth hoisted her carved pumpkin from the table with a grunt. "Beats the alternative, kiddo." She lurched toward the door. "Ro! Open sesame!" There was a thumping on the porch, then a blast of cool air as the front door opened.

"Why do you feel particularly aged?" Ducky looked up from the assortment of patterns and pumpkin cutting utensils scattered over the credenza. He selected a handful of implements that could serve him well professionally as well as artistically.

Tori sighed and dropped her glasses to the table. "I think I need bifocals. I can't focus this close with my glasses on anymore."

Ducky shook his head. "Join the ranks, my dear."

"I just keep thinking I'm this hotshot eighteen-year-old, then I try to do something stupid and my body says, 'Ha, ha, fooled ya!' I know I'm racking up years, I just don't _realize_ it until that point… or when I pay the price the next day."

"I know exactly what you mean."

She looked at him in surprise. "Crawling around on the floor all night, playing video games with Ro?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Climbing out of bed in the morning," he said drily.

She threw her head back and yelped with laughter. "Oh, God, Ducky, I love you." She leaned out of her chair and threw her arms around him and gave him a hard hug, which he eagerly returned. "You just have this way of putting things in perspective."

"You're welcome." His emotions had been flying up and down a roller coaster since the day before; he hadn't slept a wink last night and he still ran from hurt and anger to limitless joy in a heartbeat. Being around Tori—definitely joy.

"I'm so glad you hung around and you're part of this motley crew."

He continued to hold her, her head resting comfortably against his chest. "I am delighted to be part of this motley crew." It was like a tonic; if he found his thoughts going down dark paths, anger at Elizabeth, hatred of Julia… all he had to do was think hard, picture his only child or the granddaughter he'd happily adopted long before knowing their true relationship, and his soul felt soothed. And the hugs he'd shared with them this day—more than any other day, he was willing to swear (and they were a rather "huggy" bunch)?

Bliss.

_I __missed __the __last __forty __years__… __but __I __won__'__t __miss __a __minute __more._ "Good Lord, no wonder your eyes are tired." She had ignored the traditional pumpkin designs and had carved a sixties' sun with curling rays and benevolent face, intricate and detailed. "That is absolutely beautiful! I had no idea you were so artistic."

"Lucky dive in the gene pool, I guess." She turned the pumpkin around. "On the back is the moon. So when it's lit, you see one from the front and the light will cast the opposite shadow on the wall."

"Stunning. It's a good thing we aren't in competition."

She grinned up at him. "Why, thank you. I shall take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as such." He collected his tools and went back to his waiting pumpkin. "Hmm."

"Que?"

"I was just thinking of—ah—_borrowing_ your idea. I have a very traditional Halloween cat sketched out—maybe if I put a cat face on the back, get the alternating shadow as you have—"

"Oh! That would be great!" Tori snapped her fingers. "I know—a hissing face." She drew her hands up into claws, showed off her 'fangs' and hissed.

"I think that's beyond my abilities."

"Pish-tosh, you're doing great. You didn't even use a pattern for the cat on the front. But if you get stuck—I promise I'll help you."

"Thank you, my dear." He was already in the habit of using affectionate endearments around them; it was simply part of his nature. But now they brought a special smile to his face. He began gently cutting the dashed outline of fur.

"Hey… Are you sure your house will be safe?"

Ducky stopped his work and looked up over the top of his glasses. "Have you been talking to your daughter?"

"Well, yes—but that's beside the point. Is it a good idea for you to leave your house empty on Halloween? Not that we don't want you here," she added quickly.

"I was starting to worry," he said sadly.

"Oh, gosh—"

"I was joking, my dear. No, I'm sure it will be fine. I haven't had trick-or-treaters for several years. All the children grew up, moved away…"

"You haven't had _any_ new families move in? Not even _one_?"

"No, not—" He broke off abruptly. _Come __to __think __of __it__…_

"Mmh?"

"Well—perhaps a few," he admitted reluctantly. "But I'm sure it will be fine. Besides—you got no sleep last night because of the oven going on the blink."

"Feh. Sleep is for the weak and sickly."

"Elizabeth and I can help you with the handing out of candy, maybe you can take a nap or go to bed early—"

"Oh, Ducky—imagine what it would be like for those poor kids, though, if this is their first trick or treat in a new neighborhood, empty houses, no lights…"

He frowned. "Tori—"

"I'm just saying, as a mom… Halloween is very important. Especially to little kids." She used a woodcarver's tool to dig out some last details on the moon side of her pumpkin. "I was just thinking I could hold down the fort here, you and Lizzie could hand out candy at your place… cover both bases, spend the weekend at your place instead of here..."

He glanced at her sharply but she was concentrating on her artistic endeavors. "Oh?"

"Well, I love my aunt—and I know she loves me. But it might be nice to, well, have a little time away from each other. You know?"

"Hot date?" he teased.

She gave him a measured look. "No comment—but it would be nice if _someone_ in this house had a social life," she said, lifting one eyebrow. "A better one than I've had this month, anyway," she muttered.

He blushed faintly. "Tori—"

"You guys have been kind of dating since you fell back together." She ducked her head to hide her smile. "_Some_ _people_ might say you live in each other's pockets."

'_Some __people__' __being __a __certain __sixteen-year-old__…__?_ "Tori…!"

Her look was overly innocent. "I'm not telling you to—"

He held up a hand. "_Please_."

"I just thought… it's been forty years. It might be nice if you guys had some time alone. Just to… talk. Without being out at a restaurant, out in public, nice _alone_ time without worrying that someone is going to burst into the living room looking for her backpack or someone else isn't going to call with a disaster at work or—"

"Message received."

Tori brushed the remnants from the back of her pumpkin and gave it a critical look. "Not bad." She stood up and reached for the lid. "I'm just saying… it would be very sad if your house got TP'd and we could have prevented it."

"Right." He went back to cutting thin lines in the pumpkin. "I appreciate your altruism."

/ / /

"You're joking."

He shook his head.

"She's telling us to go off and spend the weekend together?" Elizabeth's voice was a whisper, but she still squeaked.

"To _talk_," he said with a badly repressed smile.

She snorted. "Yeah, because heaven knows nobody over fifty has sex."

His smile grew. "Well, we could give her a little brother or sister—"

Elizabeth gave him a horrified look. "Don't even joke about that. Pregnant at fifty-six? If I thought for a split second that was still possible, I'd buy a chastity belt."

He gave her a wicked grin. "Abby owns one."

She shook her head. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I don't know why you _would_ be," he said honestly. "Now, Elizabeth, it's strictly concern for my private property that's spurring this suggestion."

She looked at him doubtfully. "Right."

"Absolutely. Rowena is concerned my house would be 'egged' and Tori has fears of it being draped in toilet paper."

She stopped in the middle of slashing open a bag of candy. "Rowena? Ro is in on this?" she hissed.

"I don't know how far she's involved, but, yes, she and Tori talked."

"Oh, God," she moaned. "My sixteen year old granddaughter is trying to run my sex life."

"I hope not."

She dumped the candy into a bowl so large that she would barely be able to get her arms around it. "Oh?"

"Well… a young man at the dance got a bit fresh with her." He gave her a measured look. "It's not a mistake he'll make again."

"Good girl."

"Yes, well, if Rowena is in charge of our social life, I think all we can get permission for will be some hot and heavy hand holding." He reached out and ran a fingertip over her jaw. "I must admit… I liked it when Tori said time alone just to talk, nobody running into the living room looking for a backpack, someone else calling from work with an exploding water pipe…" He glanced at the overflowing bowl of candy. "Jumping up and down to answer the doorbell every ten seconds…"

She tipped her head and looked at him speculatively. "I thought that's the whole idea of _us_ going to _your_ house," she said. "Catching the candy monsters before they cause mayhem and destruction."

"If five children have moved into the area in the past year, I'll eat my words."

/ / /

By eight o'clock the door had been silent for more than half an hour: no knock, no ring, no shuffling and giggling. Elizabeth had declared it safe to end the handouts, turning off the porch light and carrying the still laden candy bowl back to the kitchen, the Corgis dodging her every step.

Ducky poked at the fire and smiled. It was nice, having time to be alone—truly _alone_—with Elizabeth. (He wasn't counting the dogs.) Even if all they did was talk, it was the privacy he relished. _One __day._ He stared at the dancing flames. _I__'__ve __been __a __father__… __for __one __whole __day._ True, technically he'd been a father for almost forty years—but he'd only known of his status for a day. He shook his head; if he was having a hard time adjusting to the knowledge, it was going to be challenging trying to explain it to his mother.

"Cozy."

"Very." He tipped his head. "What?"

Elizabeth stood in the archway to the sitting room, hands behind her back and a sly smile on her face. "What do you mean, 'what?'" The dogs padded past her, scattering about the room.

"You have a look…"

"I?" she protested innocently. "What kind of look?"

"Sort of… Mona Lisa Cheshire Cat by way of the Sphinx."

She snorted. "Wish I could see it for myself. Sounds interesting."

He leaned over. "What are you hiding?"

"Hiding… oh, nothing." She sauntered forward. "Just… a snack."

"A snack." That explained why she had taken so long to drop off a bowl of candy. She pulled a small plate from behind her back and presented it with a flourish. "Oh. Cinnamon toast. What a lovely surprise."

"Look closer."

He peered at the slices. She had carefully buttered and sugared the slices to read _my_ and _words._ "Ah… all right," he said hesitantly.

"Well, you said, and I quote, 'if five children have moved into the area, I'll eat my words.' I counted sixteen tonight." She grinned. "I just figured I'd make eating your words a little more palatable."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Cute."

"I try." She followed his silent invitation, curling up next to him, his arm around her waist. "Alone at last."

"Or close to it." He jerked his chin toward Cooper and Contessa, sitting on the opposite couch and staring at them, heads cocked.

She sighed. "Why do dogs like to stare at you when you're making out?"

"Hoping for tips," he muttered.

She snorted a laugh and began to choke on the cinnamon sugar dust. "Did you feed them?" she managed around her coughing.

"Yes," he said, patting her back ineffectively.

"Can you bribe them?" she suggested, reaching for her now stone cold tea from an hour ago.

"This is worse than dealing with small children," he sighed. "Fresh tea while I'm at it?"

"Please," she said, cough abating somewhat. "Let me. While you handle the dogs."

"Are you sure?"

She waved him away. "I'm fine."

Tyson was alone in the kitchen, finishing of what was left of the canned food initially shared between the four dogs. The others had the belief that they could eat part of the bowl when it was served and nibble throughout the night; Tyson regularly dissuaded them of this idea, but they won once or twice a month and so never really gave up hope. Tyson was becoming quite rotund in his later years. He looked up, hinting for another lamb chop bone.

"You need to diet," Elizabeth said.

Ducky patted his stomach. "Well, I admit I've put on a _few_ pounds over the years—"

"Oh, no, sweetie, not you. Tyson! He absolutely waddles."

"Dear, he's a Welsh Corgi. They _all_ waddle." He hunted for the bag of treats Abby had brought by a few weeks ago. They smelled vile, but the dogs loved them (they actually improved their 'doggy breath')—and they were like chewing taffy. The dogs would be occupied all night. "Where's Isabeau?" He whistled sharply. "Izzy!"

"Isabeau?"

"Mother was given Tyson and Isabeau right after she saw the movie _Ladyhawke_ on television and was just enchanted. She named the dogs Isabeau and Etienne." Isabeau came padding into the kitchen and sat in the doorway, looking at him expectantly. Of the four dogs, she tended to be the loner.

"How did _Etienne_… become _Tyson_?"

"He bites."

She shrugged. "Oh. Okay. What can I say, we have a cat named Vichette."

He frowned. "Vichette?" He'd seen the cat—a huge ball of fur—several times, but had never been formally introduced.

"Yeah. She was such a timid little thing, the kids named her Vicious. You know, like calling the six-six kid 'Shorty.' Then we found out _he_ was a _she_. So they feminized the name to 'Vichette.'"

"That is one… _large_… cat."

"Maine Coon. I've seen larger." She pouted at him. "I'm not fat. I'm _fluffy_."

"Ah."

"Yeah, the kids had pretty bad luck in naming pets. We had male cats named Charlotte, Chloe and Buffy, and females inadvertently named Angel and Max. Max became Maxine."

"Angel works."

"Except that the cat was named after a male character on a television show."

"I'm sure they didn't mind."

"Not that I heard." She poured the boiling water over the tea and pulled on a cozy. "I like your kitchen. Very homey."

"Thank you."

She looked over the set of knives on a magnetized strip and whistled. "Da-yam. Didn't get those free with a fill-up."

"They don't offer anything free with a fill-up any more."

"Showing my age. But it just increases my admiration for your cooking skills." She let out a whoop of laughter. "Oh my gosh. Alton Brown!"

He gave her an affronted look. "They're excellent books."

"I know! I have them. I adore his show."

"So do I. What did they say, 'Mr. Wizard meets Julia Child?' Something like that."

"All the men I know would rather watch Giada." She said the name like a schoolyard taunt, 'Gee-_yaaaah_-dah.'

"Well, she does have some good recipes."

She snorted. "Ro calls her show 'Cooking With Cleavage.' She says the background music sounds like it's for a porn movie." She stopped. "I… don't… think… I want to know how she knows it sounds like a porn movie."

"Some things are definitely better left not pursued." He handed out treats to the dogs and quickly scrubbed his hands. He slipped back to the sitting room, grabbed their teacups and returned to the kitchen. "Although," he said, continuing his thought, "it _is_ the twenty-first century and she _is_ verging on adulthood." He gave the cups a quick rinse in hot water.

"I will ask you not to remind me," she said with slight asperity. "In my mind she's still four and we're still playing Candyland." She poured fresh tea. "She won darn near every game, too."

"You let her win."

"Well… sometimes. It's hard to cheat at Candyland, even if you're cheating to lose."

"Too bad she doesn't play chess." He accepted the cup and saucer she handed him; she had left the perfect amount of room for milk.

"You'll have to wait for Drew to come home at Thanksgiving for that," she said, pulling the milk from the fridge. "Tsch. Look at me, just taking over like I own the place."

"I don't mind." He took the milk from her with a smile. "I like it. You fit in here." He poured a dollop and handed it back.

She smiled and returned the carton to its proper place. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he teased. He led the way back to the sitting room. "With mother living in Chantilly, now, no nurses, no housekeepers… it's awfully quiet." There were a couple of yaps from the kitchen, undoubtedly, 'mine!' and, 'but I want it!' "Relatively speaking," he laughed.

"Relatively speaking." Holding her tea she sat cautiously, cuddling up against him. "No succession of ladies over the years?"

He quirked a smile. "I plead the fifth."

"Oh-ho!" She blew on her tea. "Mmh. Hot."

He glanced down at her. "Why, thank you." He lifted an eyebrow suggestively.

"Nothing wrong with _your_ ego."

"I try." He sighed contentedly. Warm fire, hot tea, affectionate woman by his side; truly a lovely evening. He smiled at her matching sigh. "Penny for your thoughts."

She was silent a long moment, then laughed slightly. "Now _I__'__ll_ plead the fifth."

"Oh?" He smiled down at her; good heavens, she was blushing. "Now I really _am_ curious." She shook her head, both her smile and her blush growing. "Oh, my dear, if you leave it up to my imagination…"

She tipped her head and looked up. "Oh? Really? I'd like to hear what your imagination could come up with."

Now it was _his_ turn to blush.

"Wo-ho-ho! This sounds good." She leaned forward and set her half-full cup on the table. "Come on." She took his cup and saucer and set them next to hers. "Give."

"You first."

She stared off for a moment; still fighting a smile. "Well… okay. Okay." She looked at him almost defiantly. "I was… thinking about Napa. Now. Your turn."

"Oh, come on. You need to be more specific than that."

"Now you're changing the rules. Not fair. Your turn. What did your wicked imagination come up with?"

"The fireplace."

She glowered at him. "And you bitch about me needing to be more specific?"

"All right, all right…" He tightened his hold on her slightly; she responded by snuggling a little closer, her head on his shoulder. Good. "I was thinking… it's so very warm in here. Maybe we should… open a few buttons, cool off a little…" His finger traced idle lines on her thigh, the nail leaving faint, pale patterns on the black denim.

She stared at his hand, transfixed. "Oh, but… then we might get _too_ cool."

"True." He brushed a kiss over her ear and she drew in a quivering breath. "I was envisioning… all those quilts I've amassed over the years, piled up in front of the fire, making a nice… soft… bed… The warmth of the fire…" He barely touched his lips around the curve of her ear and she shivered, breathing hard. "The glow of the flames flickering on your body, turning it to burnished gold…"

She made a tiny noise and turned, pressing close and nuzzling his throat. "God, don't stop!" she panted.

My. Whoever said a picture was worth a thousand words didn't know the right words. "Making love with you all night, slow and sweet… I remember the way your breasts fill my hands, how wonderful they taste… the feel of your hair through my fingers as I hold you, kiss you…" Life imitating art; he slipped his hand behind her head and drew her close.

She wriggled in his arms, sucking his tongue greedily. "Jesus, Donald," she gasped when they finally parted. "Will you go get those goddamned quilts already?"

/ / /

"_Wow_."

Ducky chuckled, Elizabeth's head bouncing on his chest. "That seems to have been the word of the evening."

"Wow… I never realized I had a secret fantasy about making love in front of a roaring fire."

He grinned. "You're welcome."

"Mmmmh… yes, thank you." She reached up and kissed him lazily. Sighing happily she settled back against his chest, arranging a quilt over them again and slowly stroking his arm. "I know we didn't have many nights together, but, God, it was good." She reconsidered. "Really… _really_ good." She smiled and rubbed her cheek against him. "I used to think maybe I was just remembering that time… complimentarily. No… I was accurate." She lightly toyed with one of his nipples. "And some things definitely get better with time."

He stroked her cheek with the side of his finger. "I have to say… loving you is like magic." Not that his other partners over the years hadn't been enjoyable; far from it. But there was a _click_, a final 'something' that was always missing… until now.

"That's a good word for it," she said with a laugh. She sat up, leaning on her arm, leaned over and kissed him, slowly and repeatedly. "I love you."

"I love you…"

She shivered slightly. "Ooh. Getting cold."

"Fire died almost an hour ago." He grinned. "Well, the one in the fireplace, anyway. I don't know about spending the whole night down here…"

"Last time I chaperoned on a Scout campout, I cheated. I put an air mattress in the van. I don't sleep on hard ground any more." She shivered again. "Let's make a run for the bedroom."

"Ladies first."

"Coward." She wrapped herself in one of the lighter quilts and scrambled up. "Holy crap, it's cold!" she gasped in shock.

"It's midnight!" But she was right; it was freezing. Time to adjust the thermostats…. By the time he got upstairs, she was already in the bed, covers pulled up to her chin. When they had first gotten home in mid afternoon, he had given her the nickel tour, pointing out his bedroom and the spare bedroom, leaving it to her to choose where to sleep; when he went upstairs later, he was pleased to see her overnight bag sitting by his wardrobe. He paused only long enough to adjust the temperature for the bedroom, relieved to hear soft bumps and thumps as the system kicked in. God bless central heating. "Your toes are like ice cubes!" he gasped as he slipped under the covers.

"Cold feet, warm heart."

"Cold _hands_, warm—ye gods, your hands are cold, too! What did you do, come upstairs by way of the freezer?"

"Warm me up, Donald." She burrowed against his side.

"Your nose!"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

He laughed and pulled her closer, rubbing his hands over her back. "You know, most people wear pajamas to bed to keep warm if nothing else."

"Yeah, well…" She gave him a deep kiss, her hand wandering down to gently stroke his hip. (Her hand had quickly warmed up, thank heavens.) "Most people don't have a forty year lack of sex to make up for."

That actually startled him. "You've been alone _all_ this time?"

"Well… I've been busy," she said with a teasing pout. "First there was Tori… she was in school, I was taking culinary and how to run a small business classes… then she got married so young—she had just turned eighteen, and Drew was a Christmas baby. She got pregnant on her honeymoon, I swear. So right away we were hip deep in bottles and diapers—Drew came with me to the shop, it was fine, I loved it—until he started walking, anyway. By then he was old enough for the co-op child care at the University. He was almost three when Ronnie was born, so then I had her at the shop during the day; then no more child care when Tori graduated, I had both of them, then came Ro just a year and a half later… we juggled our schedules around so they were in daycare as little as possible—I was greedy, I wanted to have them with me," she laughed. "Fortunately I have an excellent staff."

"Including a _great_ manager."

"Hand picked, hand trained." She pressed closer. "Oh, you're nice and warm…"

"So—did Tori and Sam and the kids always live with you?"

"Oh, heavens, no. Not until the divorce. Since I was the one to ferry the kids to and fro, their school enrollment was based on my address. Tori and Sam had an apartment in D.C. then they got a house in Fairfax. When they split up, they decided it would just be more sensible for Sam to stay in the house, buy out her half in the settlement, and Tori and the kids would move in with me. We did a major remodel—put in a second master suite so Tori wouldn't feel like a permanent weekend guest, lots of bedrooms upstairs." She sighed. "Now it's getting empty again. Drew went off to New York, Ronnie moved in with Den and Mad—and my Ro baby will be going off to college next year. Tori—Tori's been seeing a young man sort of off and on the past couple of years—"

"Oh, really?" A sudden protectiveness reared its head.

"He's a couple of years younger, nice guy—he writes computer program manuals and teaches computer aided design classes a couple of nights a week. You'll probably meet him at Thanksgiving. And Sam and his girlfriend will hopefully be there."

"Hopefully?" He rubbed his forehead. "I think a major artery just exploded in my brain."

"Well, fix it by Thanksgiving. I'm counting on you making 'squish' again."

He laughed and hugged her. "You're on." He let his fingers drift up and down her back, enjoying the feel of her skin. "There won't be any arched backs and hissing with '_your_ girlfriend' and '_your_ boyfriend' sitting at the same table?"

"Heck, no. Elena is a lot like Maddie—very laid back, very mellow. She and Tori get along great. Tori and Sam managed a very amicable divorce—they make great friends, they just should have never gotten married." She cocked her head. "Of course, I got three out of this world grandkids out of the deal, so I'm not complaining."

"And the kids are okay with their parents dating?"

"Yeah, as they got older. They didn't really date when the kids were younger."

He kissed her forehead. "And will they be okay with their grandmother dating?"

"Yeah, pretty sure about that. Especially Ro—despite what happened at the dance."

"Oh?" Nice to have a champion.

"Well, ignoring Walter—worth ignoring for so many reasons—I did… _date_… a few times… and it just didn't work out. The last one was, oh, my… four, almost five years ago. Ronnie was working on her 'shock and awe' stage—what could she do—or in this case, say—that would shock, awe or generally horrify her listeners. I got some rather explicit and, needless to say, unsolicited advice about my love life—which, fortunately, I think has faded into the mists of time in her memory."

"Oh, I hope so."

"Ro, on the other hand, was more discreet. When I told her that yes, Karl and I had decided to stop seeing one another, she just looked at me and said, 'Well of course it didn't work out, Nana, his name isn't Donald.'"

"So she's going to be okay with us… dating."

"Donald… that first weekend, when she called you for help…" She laughed softly. "You have no idea what I endured the next day."

"Oh?"

"'He's _that_ Donald, isn't he Nana? _The_ Donald Mallard'—like you were a rock star or something."

He chuckled. "Well… she did recognize my name at the hospital." He was still sure that she knew their true relationship.

"All those pictures from the summer we were together, the kids pored over them from the time they were little. I could have just locked them up, but—well, I liked seeing them, remembering the good times… and sending out prayers that you were safe and healthy and happy."

_I am, now._

"They made up all sorts of tales about the love of my life that disappeared—Ronnie was going through a stage of high drama, sobbing over _Little_ _Women_ and _Jane_ _Eyre_ constantly, watching Shakespeare's tragedies on video tape… she said we were like Romeo and Juliet." She twisted around to look up at him. "I reminded her that Romeo and Juliet were dead by the end of the play and she started looking for another comparison."

"Good."

"But Ro… oh, that Sunday, all I heard was, 'Nana, he's _so_ nice, and he's _not_ married, he's _still_ in love with you, you see how he looks at you—'"

"How I look at you?"

"Yes, apparently in her universe you were wearing your heart on your sleeve."

"Well—not far off, really."

"And she swore she could see 'the heartbreak in my eyes,'" she said dramatically, "and it was just too perfect to pass up, getting back together after all these years…"

"I have to admit… I can't argue with her," he said, kissing her gently.

"Well…" she teased. "Neither can I." She ran her hand up and down his side, a slow, heavy caress. "Forty years apart to make up for."

He grinned as her hand slipped further down, taking him in a firm grasp and stroking him with a steady rhythm. "Oh, we have some long nights ahead of us, then."

She gave him a delightfully wicked smile. "Good."

"You never did tell me what you were remembering about Napa." She didn't say anything, but her smile grew larger. "_I_… was remembering…" He ran the tip of his tongue over the curve of her ear. "Trying to see how many times… I could make you come to an orgasm."

"Oh, yeah," she breathed. "Eight times… oh, God, _eight_ _times_, I was _so_ glad they'd gone off to see _Taming __of __the __Shrew_."

"So was I." He sighed in pleasure; he loved the feel of her hand, slow and gentle.

"Please—the night before?"

"Oh, yes," he laughed.

"'Oh, yes,'" she mimicked. She nibbled his earlobe and he shivered. "You… were kissing me… and licking me—mmmh, yeah, right there," she sighed as he slipped his hand between her legs. "God, you made me come so hard and I just wanted to scream—I was biting the pillow to try to keep quiet, that just made it worse, Jesus, I thought my body was going to explode—" She groaned, whether from the memory or the caress of his fingers he didn't know.

"I remember," he panted. "Oh, honey, you can scream all you want tonight, I promise." Her touch was having a definitely positive result.

"I know." She grinned and nipped the tip of his nose. "I figure if the neighbors didn't call 911 and break down the door earlier, we're safe."

"We did get rather—" He gasped as she reached a little lower, a soft brush of her fingers.

"Loud," she said. "We got loud. Really loud."

"We certainly did."

She gave him a sweet smile. "But… I think for a while now… I'm gonna be kind of quiet."

He let out a deep sigh as she slipped down, kissing his body every inch of the way. He had no objections to some quiet time—none at all.

* * *

><p>21<p> 


	22. Verismo Act Two

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Verismo (Act Two)**

**_Verismo: _**_A __form __of__  
><em>_Italian __opera __beginning__  
><em>_at __the __end __of __the__  
><em>_19th __century. __The __setting__  
><em>_is __contemporary __to __the__  
><em>_composer's __own __time,__  
><em>_and __the __characters __are__  
><em>_modeled __after __every __day __life._

* * *

><p><strong>November 1, 2009<strong>

"The house is standing. She didn't run out of candy."

Ducky followed Elizabeth inside. "It's so quiet."

"Ro spent the night at Abby's, remember? And Tori is at the shop." She held up a finger. "I am asserting my rights, I'm going back tomorrow."

"Remind me to stay out of throwing distance."

"Let's see…" She looked over the message board on the inside of the back door. "Chicken in the crock pot."

Ducky wandered over and cracked open the lid. "Smells wonderful."

"Ro is taking Abby skating again. Dennys called, wants me to call… Malcolm in California?" She cocked her head. "Malcolm?" She reached for the phone and hesitated. "Wait it's…" She counted on her fingers. "Oh, it's nine, it should be okay." She punched in the telephone number. "Hello, this is Elizabeth Hamilton, returning a message from Malcolm…?" She listened for a moment. "Yes…" Suddenly she gasped. "Malcolm! Oh, my God, _Malcolm_—you're not dead!"

"Heavens, but you're brilliant," he whispered. She reached over with a hotpad and smacked his arm. He left her to her conversation, hunting in the refrigerator for the wine they had opened the other day and holding the bottle aloft for her approval.

She nodded enthusiastically. "No, no, Ronnie has always been a beautiful singer," she said into the receiver. 'Thank you' she mouthed as Ducky handed her a glass of wine. She sucked in a breath. "Malcolm, I haven't—it's been years. Decades!" She listened, her face growing somber. "No—no, of course I heard, I just—I cried all day, it just broke my heart." She smiled. "Yeah… Christmas was her favorite." She listened for a long time, sipping her wine. Finally she sighed. "I… can't say no. You know I can't. Okay, weekend right after Thanksgiving. Twenty-eight and nine." She laughed slightly. "It'll be good to see you, too, Mal. Email me. M-I-Z-B-I-Z at atlanticserv-dot-com. S-E-R-V, no e at the end. Yeah. Three weeks, oh my God," she half moaned. "Yeah—see you then."

He looked at her quizzically. "More plans for Thanksgiving?"

She nodded her head toward the door; he followed her out of the kitchen and into the living room, sitting on the couch. "Move over," she said. "I want to snuggle with you."

He grinned and complied. "What if someone comes in?" he mock-gasped.

"Nobody will be home before six, guaranteed. And if they do—well, we'll just make sure to keep our clothes on."

"Darn."

She slipped under his arm, cuddling against his chest. "Malcolm… is arranging a tribute show. For Christmas. They're going to film it up at Carnegie Mellon, for PBS." She sighed. "It's in honor of Mary Travers—you know, Peter, Paul and Mary."

He nodded. "I remember; she passed just a month or two ago."

"She was one of the sweetest people I ever knew in the industry. That one song we did together, it was totally impromptu—we were just messing around on stage and hit this harmony—"

"It sounded wonderful." He smiled. "I… found a copy of the album a few years ago, bought it."

"Kinda past royalties, now." She took a sip of her wine. "Malcolm—I don't know if you remember him, he was my sort of agent?"

"We never met—but didn't he get those Moody Blues tickets for you?"

"Yep." She shook her head. "Moody Blues… Well. Malcolm ran into Dennys this week, he remembered him from back when. Ronnie was with Den; she does studio work as a backup singer. Malcolm had this idea of me—" She glanced at Ducky. "Annalee," she corrected with a faint wince, "singing _Amazing_ _Grace_ during the tribute, with Ronnie singing Mary's part."

He smiled down at her. "I think that sounds sweet."

"Would you be able to come with us? It's the whole weekend, we're doing the show on Saturday, interviews on Sunday, they'll splice them in with the show when they broadcast it…"

"Pennsylvania? I'd love to. I'll make sure to visit Mother on Friday."

"Maybe… we could all visit her." She smiled hesitantly. "And she can meet her granddaughter. And great-grandchildren."

He blinked hard. "That would be wonderful."

She took a deep breath. "I'm telling Tori. Tonight."

"Do you want me to stay?"

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "Please."

He idly stroked her hair, his fingers barely tracing over her temple, minutes slowly ticking away. It was so relaxing, so tender a moment he didn't want it to end. _Turning __quite __the __sentimentalist __in __your __old __age,_ he thought. Truth be told, he had always been a bit on the sentimental side—and he didn't see anything wrong with it.

"Last night…"

"Mmh?" Did she want to reminisce about their lovemaking? He was more than happy to oblige.

"Last night… well, this morning, really… I woke up in the middle of the night…"

He couldn't help but grin. "I remember."

She laughed softly. "Not that time. Later, about an hour later."

"Ah."

"I guess I was in the middle of a dream or something, I just jolted awake—then I had that moment of _where __the __heck __am __I?_ I looked at the wall and instead of two bookcases and a door there's a dresser and a window… Then I was thinking, 'okay, okay, I'm at Donald's'… And right then you turned over in your sleep. You spooned up against me, we just fit together perfectly, just like we used to…" There was a catch in her voice. "You wrapped your arms around me, held me close, and I felt so safe and so loved… I just fell right back asleep. Oh, Donald…" She rested her hand on his chest. "That was the best sleep I've had in forty years."

No drink to lull him to sleep… no guilt, no nightmares, no fear—just blessed sleep, gentle loving in the night and drifting back to dreams with her in his arms. "You _are_ loved. And you _are_ safe." He kissed her forehead. "And… I know… _exactly_ what you mean."

/ / /

That afternoon, Elizabeth joined him in his visit to Chantilly. He had spent a couple of weeks preparing his mother for a visit from Tori or Rowena… which necessitated telling her about Elizabeth. As feared, at first her reaction was quite bad. She remembered his heartbreak more vividly than he ever would, and was ready to do battle royal in his name. (When she first managed a firm recollection of Elizabeth, she had let loose with a couple of pithy words and swung her cane against the footboard of the bed, leaving a nasty gouge in the wood.) But over the weeks he had calmed her, making her realize that Elizabeth had been completely blameless—that the fault lay squarely at her mother's feet.

"Matthew has a gun," she said decisively. "I shall ask him to take her out!"

Thank God Gibbs—Matthew in her universe—would probably play along to a limited degree. "Take her out—Mother, have you been watching _Law __and __Order_?"

She gave him a winning smile. "I think Detective Briscoe… has a crush on me."

He smiled down at her. "Oh, Mother… who could blame him?"

The day after Halloween. All Hallow's Day. A renewal of life, in a sense, as much as spring was. Elizabeth stood by his side, clutching the volume of photos she had selected. "Will it be all right?"

"Well… I hope so," he said honestly. "With Mother—you never know."

She was in the common room, having afternoon tea. "Donald!" she cried delightedly. Her gaze fell on Elizabeth and her smile faltered. "Do I… know you?"

"Mother… this is Elizabeth." Her hand was like ice in his and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. "You remember, Mother, we talked…"

She frowned. "You… make cookies."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Donald brings me cookies." She looked at him expectantly.

"I brought you cookies on Thursday, Mother. I always bring them on Thursday."

"Today isn't Thursday?"

"No, today is Sunday."

"Elizabeth…" She sat up abruptly. "She lied!" She thumped her cane for emphasis. "Your mother—she lied to Donald!"

"I know." Elizabeth slipped into the loveseat next to Victoria's chair. "And… I am so, so sorry. She lied to me, too."

Victoria was taken aback. "She—lied to you?"

Elizabeth nodded. "All of Donald's letters… she burned them." She had tears in her eyes. "I never got to read them."

"Oh… you poor child." To Ducky's amazement (shock, even) Victoria leaned over and put her spindly arms about Elizabeth. "She was just vile. I shall have Matthew shoot her!"

_Oh, God._

Elizabeth nodded. "I—I can certainly understand your feelings, Mrs. Mallard. But she died a long time ago."

She nodded sharply. "She deserves it."

"Mother—"

Elizabeth put a hand on his wrist. "No, Donald," she said seriously. "For what my mother did to you—to us—she deserves no kind words."

"Tori…Tori is of a mind that bringing us together is her doing, her way of making things right."

Mrs. Mallard looked confused. "I thought your name is Elizabeth."

Elizabeth took a steadying breath. "I am. Tori—her name is actually Victoria. She's my daughter."

She received a sunny smile. "_My_ name is Victoria."

"I know." He could see Elizabeth was trembling and sat down next to her, slipping an arm about her shoulders. "I… named her after you."

"What a sweet thing to do."

"Mother… Tori is Elizabeth's child. And mine. She's my daughter."

She looked confused. "Daughter?"

"She's your granddaughter. You have a granddaughter, Mother."

She looked at him with the most heartbreaking stare. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh—oh, Mrs. Mallard, he didn't know. Not until now."

"You…" She tipped her head. "You… had a baby? Donald's baby?"

She nodded.

"Oh… _Donald_…" she said in mild reproof. He could tell she was at war with herself—scandalized that he had bedded and (apparently) abandoned a young lady In The Family Way… but at the same time, by God, she finally had a grandchild. Selfish desire won out over social convention. "Where is she? Where is my gandbaby?"

"She—she couldn't be here today. Not yet," Elizabeth said quickly. "She's been running the tea room since I had my accident."

Victoria clucked over the scars on her arm. "Oh, you need to be more careful, dear. Donald was a bit clumsy in the kitchen, too, gave himself a nasty cut."

She glanced at him in surprise, then nodded knowingly when he moved his right hand slightly. She knew the truth behind the scar on his hand, something his mother would never, ever hear. "I'm sure it was an accident. He's usually very careful."

Victoria looked around. "Where is she? Where did she go?"

"She'll come with us soon. Maybe next time." Elizabeth smiled at her. "But I brought pictures for you—and pictures of her children."

Victoria looked baffled. "Children? How—how old is she?"

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "She… will be forty next spring. Donald and I—" She blinked back tears. "Donald and I have been apart… for forty years."

She shook her head, angry and confused. "She… was… evil," she spat.

"I know. And I am… so sorry." Elizabeth opened the book. "This… is Tori. My Victoria." She smiled at Ducky. "_Our_ Victoria."

Victoria looked at the photo of Tori as a baby, soft ringlets of pale gold and wide eyes, clutching a stuffed lamb in her hands. "Oh… oh, Donald." She began to cry. "She looks just like when you were a baby!"

Elizabeth hugged her gently. "I just knew she did."

"Oh…" Victoria reached out a trembling hand to turn the pages. "She's beautiful… she's beautiful…" Elizabeth had mostly selected photos where Tori was alone, though there were one or two with Tish. "Who is that?"

"My sister," Elizabeth said simply. No need confusing the matter. "That's Sam," she said as the photos progressed. "He and Tori were married in 1988. They were divorced a little over ten years later."

"I was divorced." She frowned. "Back then, ladies didn't divorce. My mother was appalled. But Donald's father was such a nipfarthing…" She leaned close. "Donald… Donald isn't cheap with you, is he?"

"Oh, no, no, ma'am."

"Good." She nodded. "You make sure he opens those purse strings for you, dear. And your little girl."

"Gladly, Mother," he said quickly.

Andrew, Bronwyn, Rowena… by the end of the book, she was so confused. But she knew one thing for certain: she had a granddaughter. Somewhere in these pages, _she __had __a __granddaughter_.

"The children, they'll all be here for Thanksgiving." Elizabeth patted her arm.

Victoria looked up at her, hugging the book to her chest. Her pale eyes were a silent plea.

"I promise… we'll all come to see you. All of us." Elizabeth slipped a box from her large bag. "I brought this… for you. To keep."

Victoria's eyes lit up. "A present? For me?" She looked at Ducky. "I didn't get her anything," she whispered loudly.

"It's all right, Mother. You can get Elizabeth a gift next time."

"Oh. All right." Mollified, she slipped the lid from the box.

"That's Victoria… as a baby. And when she got married. Andrew, when he was… seven. That's him with his fiancée, Midori."

"My heavens. She's your daughter? She doesn't look anything like you!"

"No, no, Mrs. Mallard. That's Midori," she repeated with gentle patience. "Midori Theopopolus. She's Drew's fiancée."

"She's very pretty."

Ducky had to agree. Midori looked like the missing sister between Ziva and the late Agent Lee—masses of dark, wavy hair, dark green eyes with a slight Asian tilt and killer bone structure. Drew was probably the envy of all his male friends.

"And this is Bronwyn, when she was five… and her graduation this year."

"She's the same girl?"

"Well, she dyes her hair black, now."

She looked at Ducky. "She looks like that young girl you were sleeping with!"

"_Mother!_" Just when he thought things were going well… "Abigail and I—we never—"

"No?" She looked puzzled.

"No," he said firmly.

"Ah—" Elizabeth coughed softly. "This is Rowena, when she was just a baby. And this was her first time competing at Regionals."

Victoria stared at the picture. "Is she a—a fan dancer?" she asked in horror.

"No, no! No, Mother, Rowena was an ice skater," Ducky said, pointing to the skates on Rowena's feet.

Her face cleared. "Oh—like Sonja Henie!"

Elizabeth smiled. "Yes. Like Sonja Henie."

"Oh, my," she said, suitably impressed. Her fingers brushed over the last picture. "Donald… this is you?"

"Yes." He smiled at Elizabeth's choices—a picture from the night they had gone Elizabethan dancing, dressed in full regalia… and a copy of Saturday morning in Napa, the photo Tori had brought to the hospital.

"Oh, you look quite handsome," his mother said proudly. "And that is a lovely dress, Rowena."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then shut it. After a moment, she smiled. "Thank you."

/ / /

"That went _very_ well." He glanced over at the passenger seat. "That was very sweet of you, bringing that collection for her."

"Well, I know space is usually a premium in care facilities—that way she has pictures of all the kids, then and now. And pictures of us."

"Is Midori in college with Drew?"

"No, no, she graduated a few years ago. She's an associate veterinarian in upstate New York."

"An unusual name. Named after the liqueur?"

"Named after the skater," she corrected with mild reproof. "Midori Theopopolus."

He shook his head. "That still brings my mind to a screeching halt."

Elizabeth laughed. "It took me some practice. Midori—" She screwed up her face. "Midori Zada Theopopolus. Her mother is Japanese-American and Hawaiian; her father is Greek and Armenian."

"Good heavens, she's her own UN."

"We were out at the mall one year, and some busybody asked, 'And what are you?'"

"How rude!"

She laughed. "Yes, but before Drew could pop her one, Midi pipes up, 'I'm a New Yawk city goil, why?' in her can't mistake-it-for-anything-else Brooklyn accent. Priceless." She stopped. "Oh, that's going to be confusing. Midi and Maddie."

"I suggest staying sober."

"Mmh." She sat in silence for a long moment as they drove. She reached over and stroked his arm. "That was very wise, not telling her what really happened to you last spring."

"She wouldn't have understood. I never told her about what happened in Afghanistan—I never told anyone, really… It would have made no sense to her."

She nodded. "Don't worry." She laid her hand on her chest. "It's safe… in here."

They were stopped at a red light. He leaned over and kissed her softly. "Thank you."

/ / /

"Okay, that is incredible. Oh, my God." Tori tucked her feet up, sitting cross-legged on the couch. "Ro better get her butt home or she's not getting any of this cake." She shoved another bite into her mouth. "Lizzie, this is one of the best things you've ever made, why the heck isn't this at the store?"

Elizabeth grinned. "Because…" She pointed her fork at Ducky. "I didn't make dessert. Donald did."

Tori turned to look at him, surprised and more than a little impressed. "My compliments to the chef!"

"Well, since we came home to find that lovely chicken dinner cooking away, it only seemed fair to provide dessert. Elizabeth was busy—" He broke off, remembering she had been busy pulling photos from the computer to print out for his mother. "So I took over the task."

"Well, this is great." She rolled another bite over her tongue. "Raspberries… white chocolate… almonds… dash of…" She frowned. "Dash of… nutmeg?"

"Allspice."

"Ah." She swiped her tongue over her lips to catch the last bit of frosting. "I love it. It tastes… the way cold feels. What do we have to do to get the recipe?"

"It's yours for the asking."

"Mmmm. Thank you."

The telephone by his elbow rang; at Elizabeth's look, he picked it up. "Hello?"

There was a long silence. "Uh… hello?" It was a young man, sounding very hesitant. Hopefully not Rowena's masher from the dance.

"May I help you?" he asked politely.

"Ah—I think I might have the wrong number…?"

"To whom do you wish to speak?"

"Now I know I have the wrong number," he muttered. "Um, I was looking for Elizabeth Hamilton?"

"Certainly. May I tell her who's calling?"

"Her… _grandson_," he said, still uncertain—but very firm on the last word in case there was any question.

"Ah! Drew!" he said delightedly. "Just one moment." He handed the receiver to Elizabeth and moved the base so the cord wasn't stretched across his face. "Your _grandson_, my dear."

"Drew!" she squealed into the phone. "No, no, she's here, too. That was…" She blushed. "…a very, _very_ dear friend of mine, Donald Mallard." She laughed. "Yes… _the_ Donald Mallard."

_The_ Donald Mallard. He grinned and took a sip of his coffee. He was flashing back to some truly dreadful television commercials, but, dang, Elizabeth made the best coffee he'd had in his life.

"No… we're in the TV room, I can do that," she said with a puzzled look. "Hang on." She pushed a button on the face of the telephone and placed the receiver in the cradle. "You there, sweetie?"

Over the speaker came all manner of blips and bleeps and ching-ching-ching noises, then: "Grandma?"

"We're all here," she said, over Tori's, "Hey, Drew!"

"Hey, Mom!" he said cheerily.

"What's going on? Where are you?"

There was a laugh from Drew, and a soft giggle. Ah—Drew was in the company of a female. "We're—in Vegas, Mom!"

Tori and Elizabeth exchanged startled looks. "Vegas?" his mother repeated. "You aren't old enough—"

"No, not to gamble!" he laughed. He was certainly in a jovial mood.

"Well, what else—" Tori suddenly gasped. "Oh—oh, _Andrew_, you didn't—"

"Yes, we did!" He laughed again, delighted. "It is my great pleasure to introduce Dr. Midori Theopopolus, also known from this day forward as—"

"Mrs. Andrew Cameron!" the giggling young woman chimed in.

Tori and Elizabeth were in shock, mouths agape. "This is Dr. Mallard, Andrew," Ducky said quickly to fill the silence. "My congratulations and felicitations to you both. Were you married this morning?"

"No—last night. But the lines were all busy, who'd'a thunk Halloween was such a big holiday for phone calls."

"You—you got married on Halloween?" his mother finally managed.

"Yeah, I don't have a chance of forgetting this date."

"Oh, Drew!" his wife sighed and laughed.

"And we always get a great anniversary party."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Oh, Drew," she said, echoing her granddaughter-in-law. "Congratulations to you both!"

"Mom?" he said hesitantly.

"Oh—oh, I'm thrilled, honey, really," she said quickly. "I always knew Midi was the girl for you, I—I just thought you were going to wait until after graduation… but, no, I'm very, very happy. Really I am." She laughed. "I figure Midi is the only girl who could keep you in line!"

"Yeah, the threat of animal tranks does wonders. Ow!" Drew laughed; Midi had probably smacked him for his comment.

"You're—you're going to be here for Thanksgiving, right? Both of you?" Elizabeth asked worriedly.

"You bet!"

"You heard about Ro's new job? She's an intern in the forensics lab at NCIS?"

"Yeah, she sent me an email. Sounds like a wicked cool job."

Elizabeth grinned. "She's having the time of her life. And we're having her whole team here for Thanksgiving, just wanted to let you know there'll be a lot of new faces."

"Cool! More leftovers!"

"_More_ leftovers?" Midi queried before Ducky could.

"Yeah, Grandma'll do two or three turkeys just to be safe." He smacked his lips. "Mmm, turkey sandwiches for breakfast!"

"Make sure to bring a couple of coolers with you," Tori advised. "We have to send you home with enough for a couple of days."

"Oh!" Elizabeth sat up. "I, ah, we have a… family thing going on for the weekend. Will you be able to stay through Sunday night?"

There was a muffled conference, then the speaker cleared. "I don't have any classes Monday or Tuesday, and the clinic is closed through Tuesday for the holidays. We were going to go back on Saturday to avoid traffic, but Monday or Tuesday would work just as well."

Elizabeth clapped her hands. "Goody!"

"_Goody?_" Drew laughed. "Grandma, you're reverting to your childhood."

"Close!"

"Hey, my battery is going—listen, I'll call you tonight, okay? Tell Ro!" he yelled just as his phone died with a _bleep!_

"Married," Tori sighed as Elizabeth handed the telephone to Ducky. "He's… married." She sighed again. "I feel old."

"Now you know how I felt when you called me up and said, 'The wedding is next week, will you be there?'" Elizabeth said with a speaking look.

"At least I gave you a week's notice!"

"Because back then you had to wait for the license and blood tests."

"Yeah, and we couldn't afford to fly to Vegas."

"But we have yet to plan a big, splashy wedding in this family!"

"Hey, the bride's family traditionally picks up the tab. You're welcome for saving you that money."

"You have two daughters, we'll spend it eventually." Elizabeth glanced at Ducky, then gave Tori a hesitant smile. "So… things going well at the store?"

That wasn't the topic he was hoping she'd broach.

"Well… pretty much," Tori said. She seemed a little surprised, too. "Didn't take much to get back on track once the Polin got fixed—and once everyone pulled an all-nighter. We've been doing a lot of all-nighters lately."

"I have no problem handing out bonuses," Elizabeth said.

"They all deserve 'em."

"I was thinking… of coming in starting Monday," Elizabeth said casually.

Tori gave her a sharp look. "Oh?"

"I'll play by your rules. No heavy lifting. No carrying. But I've done very well in my physical therapy—and you know I'm the fastest decorator in the company. Frankie is good, but he must be losing his mind."

"Well… it has been hard on him," Tori admitted. She sighed. "Do you promise not to do any big stuff?"

"I promise," Elizabeth said, making a cross over her heart.

"If Dr. Ackerman says okay, then… okay."

"Thank heavens," Elizabeth muttered. "I have to get up to speed. Thanksgiving is right around the corner."

"Don't remind me. We're going to have to cut off pie orders earlier this year. We've already got twenty orders on the board."

"Good God, it's just turned November!"

"Tell me!"

Ducky toyed with his coffee, his spoon making little eddies in the tan liquid. The waiting was killing him, but he wasn't going to push.

"Um…" Tori chewed her lip. "May I ask a… personal question?"

Elizabeth shot him a slightly panicked look. "Ah—sure," she managed.

"Did you two…" She gestured between them. Ducky held his breath in anticipation. "Did you guys, well—have a fight or something?"

He almost dropped his spoon.

"No, not at all," Elizabeth said quickly. "Why do you say that?"

"You're just… coming off really tense." She looked from Elizabeth to Ducky and then back.

"Oh, boy," Elizabeth muttered. She shook her head. "After Drew's announcement, I guess this is a good time. I…" She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. "I don't know where to _start_. I don't know what to _say_."

"Well," Tori said slowly, "I'm going to give you the same advice a very wise woman once told me: let the words fall out and we'll sort them through when you're done talking. You were always there to listen for me. You never interrupted even when I knew what I was saying was making your blood pressure go through the roof and you wanted to scream until the ground shook four states away." Elizabeth managed a smile. "I owe you the same courtesy."

Elizabeth pursed her lips and blew out a long, slow breath. She glanced at Ducky, who gave her his most encouraging smile. She leaned forward and set her coffee down… then folded her napkin in half, quarters, eighths… then unfolded it and started over again. The third time through she collided with her coffee cup, upending the dregs onto the low table. "Dammit to hell!"

"This is hell, go ahead, dammit," Tori joked. Elizabeth attempted a feeble smile and blotted at the spilled coffee. "Hey—" Tori slipped off the other couch and came over to sit next to Elizabeth, reaching over and stopping Elizabeth's frantic clean up maneuvers. "It's okay," she said gently. "Listen. I don't care what you say—I'm not going to be upset. Just… tell me." She stared down at their hands, Elizabeth's trembling beneath hers.

"When—you were born," she started falteringly. "Patricia—she and Gene—you were adopted. Sort of. I mean, your birth certificate, it says—they didn't _adopt_ you, not through the court—oh, Jesus," she half-moaned, dropping her forehead into her free hand.

Ducky watched Tori surreptitiously. She hadn't even blinked at the idea that she had been adopted. Either she was doing what she had promised—not reacting until all the information was in—or it was something that had been playing around in the back of her mind.

Elizabeth shook her head back and forth, minute movements, almost like a tic. He saw her mouth the words, 'I can't' and he let out a deep breath. She'd probably figured this was a secret she'd take to the grave—and if he hadn't stumbled into her life, she would have. He saw the glint of tears in her eyes and let out a deep sigh. Maybe it wasn't going the way she wanted to—but after jumping into the water, she was going to have to finish the swim somehow.

"Back… when… everyone came out to visit," Tori said slowly, "when Grandmother told you what she had done… I couldn't imagine how hurt you were. I couldn't believe she did what she did. I always felt she had a mean streak in her, but that—?" She shook her head. "I kept telling myself man, I am so lucky I grew up with you. And the next year, she got drunk one time too many, drove off Mulholland—"

Ducky shuddered, even though he really wasn't surprised to hear what had killed her. The real surprise was that she hadn't done it years before.

"And… I know I should have felt sad that she died, but I couldn't. She hurt everyone in her life. Everyone. I just… couldn't… mourn her. Maybe I pitied her, maybe a little… We went out for the funeral, remember?"

Elizabeth nodded, a nervous jerk.

"Uncle Dennys… he got pretty drunk. It was the last time he did it in his life, I think—well, I know he had problems with Grandmother—"

Ducky couldn't help but snort a little; _problems. __Yeah, __you __could __say __that._

"I think it was kind of like throwing away that part of his life and starting over."

"Maybe," Elizabeth said softly.

"Like I said, he… got pretty drunk. Aunt Maddie was in the kitchen, helping with food for the reception. He started talking about how Grandmother never liked Maddie, and she was the person who was the nicest to her all those years… how she broke up Tish and, oh, I don't remember his name, but she broke them up—and she only tolerated Gene—"

Ducky looked up sharply; she had referred to her parents—the people she saw as her parents—by their first names…? Perhaps she was relating the story as Dennys would have…

"And… you guys. Man, he was pissed about what she did to you guys. He said he gave you a really hard time when you were together, and now he felt bad about that—but it was just because you were dating his baby sister." Elizabeth glanced up and flashed him a bit of a smile. "But he said he really, really liked you… and when he found out what Grandmother had done, he wanted to find you, see if you could get together again. He said…" She thought for a moment, drew in a steadying breath. "He said… 'Breaking up your parents was the meanest thing that bitch ever did.'"

In the silence, they could hear the soft snore of Vichette asleep on a chair.

"And… I knew he didn't mean Tish and Gene."

Elizabeth stared at her in shock.

"I… didn't know what to say." She laughed and sniffed a little. "But that's okay, he had _plenty_ to say. He… told me… everything. How… Mama went to Grandmother and told her if she dragged you home, if she tried to make you have an abortion… she'd take you away, both of you would run away and she'd never see either of you again."

Elizabeth gasped. "My God, Tish never—she never told me—"

"She didn't want to upset you. She kept a lot of things from you, he said. He told me… I was the luckiest kid on the planet. I had two moms—two!—who would lay down their lives for me." She chewed her lip. "I already thought I was lucky. When Mama died—God, my heart broke. I cried and cried and you were there for me. You let me cry, you told me stories about her—all those years, all those stories, I felt like I was there watching her skate, watching her dance, swimming with the two of you. You… had been my second mom for ten years. And you… were… spectacular."

Elizabeth gulped, the tears cascading over her lashes.

"All my friends, they were constantly fighting with their parents. All the time. About the most stupid things… But you let me wear those dopey outfits, you let me cut my hair—" She laughed. "You said, 'It'll grow back.' You told me later you didn't want to waste time arguing over things that would be trivial in the long run."

Elizabeth nodded. "I figured… if we didn't fight all the time, when we did disagree, you might be more inclined to listen."

"It worked. But the next day, Dennys—he was really upset that he had told me. We had a long talk—sober, this time. He said it wasn't his place to tell me. I was getting kind of upset—you know, 'Why didn't she tell me all this time?'"

Elizabeth bit her lip and pulled back. Ducky moved closer, slipping a protective arm around her waist. _I__'__m __here. __You__'__re __safe._

"And he said, 'You can't second-guess another person. You just can't. But I'll tell you this—whatever she's done or not done, whatever she does from here on out—it's because she loves you and wants to protect you. You are the most important thing in her life and don't you ever, _ever_ think badly of her.'" She let out a deep breath. "And… we came back home. And I kept watching you, waiting, waiting for… something. And… nothing happened. But I started seeing you differently. Instead of Aunt Lizzie, who had stepped in to be my surrogate mother when Mama died… you were _my_ _mom_. You found someone to love me and keep me safe when I was younger, then you did the job when she couldn't any more. You could have spoiled me rotten too, to make up for it—but you didn't. You were fair. If you spoiled me, it was because you loved me to death, no matter what. And when I talked to you, I said, 'Aunt Lizzie.' But inside I always said, 'Mom.'" She reached out and stroked Elizabeth's—her mother's—hair very gently. "I don't care what I call you, I don't care what you want me to call you. I just know… you're my mommy and I love you." She wrapped her arms around Elizabeth and hugged her, hard. "Dennys was right, I had the two best moms in the world."

"I'm so sorry. I should have told you, I just couldn't—"

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay… I knew you had your reasons. I figured you'd tell me someday and if you didn't… well, you didn't."

Ducky looked up, startled, as he felt her take his hand.

"I knew it was going to come out now. It was time." She wriggled around so that she still had an arm around Elizabeth and had Ducky's hand more securely in her grasp. "I deserve an Academy Award."

Elizabeth laughed and swiped at her cheeks with a free hand. "How so?"

"Holy cow. I walk up to the table and Ziva says, 'May I introduce you to Donald Mallard' and—I'm sorry, but Donald Mallard isn't exactly John Smith. And—you haven't changed _that_ much in forty years. I have every picture memorized. Same eyes. Same smile."

"My mother says you looked just like I did as a baby."

She gasped slightly and it was her turn to blink back tears—unsuccessfully. "Do I? Did I?"

He nodded, smiling. "Very much so."

She sucked in a long breath. "Oh, my God… it just really hit me right now. I have a _grandmother_!" she breathed.

"And she can't wait to meet you."

She dropped his hand, clapping her hand to her mouth, hiding her trembling lips. "I was so cool, so calm—'Oh, how do you do, Dr. Mallard' and I just wanted to jump up and down and scream, 'You're my Daddy! You're my Dad!"

He slipped off the couch and stood in front of her. "I'm so glad… to finally, _really_ meet you." He held out his hands.

She took them and stood in front of him a little nervously. "So… do you want me to call you Dad? Or Father? Oh, Father is so stuffy. Dad? Or Daddy?"

He smiled. "Whatever you feel comfortable with. We'll find it out. We have plenty of time." He wrapped his arms around her, holding tightly.

"I looked at those pictures—I made up all sorts of stories over the years, where you were, what you were doing… and you were always nice and sweet and kind—"

He laughed. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"No. Oh, no…" She pulled back and looked him in the eye. "You are so much more than I ever dreamed of, Dad." She grinned. "Dad… Oh, welcome to the family!"

"Oh…" He turned to Elizabeth. She was shaking her head, smiling through her tears. "I never thought I'd live to see this."

"Neither did I!" Tori teased. "It was taking forever!" She plopped back on the couch, nestling her head on her mother's shoulder. "It isn't even Thanksgiving and this is the _best_ Christmas present ever."

"It's going to be the best Thanksgiving," Elizabeth sighed. Ducky slipped next to her, his hand twined with hers; she turned slightly and gave him a brief kiss. "The whole family together—for real."

"Finally," Tori sighed.

"Tori… I'm going to need your help," Elizabeth admitted.

"Sure—Mom," she added after a moment. She grinned. "_Mom_," she repeated.

"I couldn't even tell you—and you already knew, thank heavens, I really fell apart… I—I don't know how to tell the kids."

"Well… Ro already knows," Tori said slowly.

"I told you so," he muttered in Elizabeth's ear.

"How?" she gasped.

"Well… a few of years ago, she was looking at the family pictures, and just out of the blue she said, 'You look a lot more like Nana than you do Grandma Tish. And you don't look at _all_ like Grandpa Gene. You know what I think?' And she spun this tale about the two of you being madly in love—"

_True enough._

"And you had this mad, passionate romance—"

_On a roll._

"And you said he went off to Viet Nam, so she decided you were a prisoner of war, and you saved all your fellow prisoners at some point or other with your medical skills—and you lost your memory, so you never made it back, and Nana was so devastated by the loss she couldn't bear to keep me—"

"Dear God, she should be writing romance novels," Elizabeth said in admiration.

"Yeah, I was listening to all this, thinking, 'Hmm, wonder how far off she is?' I didn't tell her about what your mother did, not until later." She snorted. "It's a good thing she was already dead, my God, I have _never_ seen anyone so angry. She wanted blood vengeance."

Ducky exchanged a look with Elizabeth. "She'll get along great with my mother," he said wryly.

"She saw you wear that bracelet every day, she put two and two together, added in the family portrait and… came up with a pretty much accurate answer. She's a very bright girl."

"Runs in the family," he said. "Gallops," he whispered to Elizabeth.

/ / /

The discussion with Rowena that evening was dreadfully anticlimactic. "I was starting to wonder if you'd ever get around to it," she said in an exasperated tone. "I mean—jeez, it's Grandparents' Day at school Thanksgiving week, I was starting to get a little antsy!"

"I'm not sure…" Elizabeth looked up at Ducky in consternation. "I have the vague feeling there was in insult buried in there—like we aren't very bright or something."

"Oh, no!" Rowena half-tackled her grandmother in a hug, eliciting a soft 'oof!' from Elizabeth. "Never! It's just—I've known, oh, it feels like _forever_, and you never said anything, then Ducky came into the store, you guys got back together—you're back together, right?—and you _still_ didn't say anything, I was pretty sure _he_ didn't know, it was just killing me, I mean, I could call you Nana, it didn't matter whether Mom called you Auntie Lizzie or Mom or whatever, you were my Nana, and, oh—!" She turned to Ducky, eyes wide. "Oh… should I still call you Ducky?" she asked hesitantly.

He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'll tell you what I told your mother—you call me… what makes you comfortable."

"Ducky. No…" she shook her head. "I mean, I like Ducky, it's cute, everyone at work calls you that. But… _everyone_ _at_ _work_ calls you that. You're _my_ grandfather." She cocked her head. "Grandfather. No… that's a little formal. And Grandfather is Grandfather because he's my Great-Grandfather and that's just too much of a mouthful. Grandpa… no. Grandpa is too… country. Nana…" She smiled. "Nana and Papa." She looked at him. "Papa. Is Papa okay?"

He all but melted. "Oh, Ro. Papa—Papa is _just_ _fine_."

/ / / / /

**November 2, 2009**

"As Abigail has so often reminded you—"

"Yeah, yeah, you can't rush science." Gibbs paced the length of the autopsy suite.

"Why aren't you wearing out the tile in her lab instead of mine?"

Gibbs glared at the M.E. "She threw me out." Ducky snickered. "Said I was making Major Mass Spec nervous. How the hell do you make a machine nervous, Duck?"

"I am not sure, Jethro, but if anyone can do it—" He pointed at him with his pen. "You can."

"Jeez, it's like walking into a tree of magpies up there," Gibbs continued. "Half the time I can't tell which one of 'em is talking to me and half the time it's both of them! Don't you sit there and grin, Dr. Mallard, it's your fault!"

"Guilty as charged," he laughed. "Admit it—you aren't really upset. Abby enjoys the company, they work wonderfully together—"

"I'm buying stock in Caf-Pow. That's all I'm sayin'."

The pneumatic door whooshed open and the objects of their discussion flitted in. Rowena—now well over six feet, since Abby had taken her shopping for 'proper' shoes—led the parade, file in hand. Abby was right behind her with a classic cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on her face. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Rowena had been spilling family secrets-no-more. "Hot off the press," Rowena sang out, handing him the toxicology report.

"You could have faxed it down."

"Please, Papa." She leaned over and gave him a hug. "I haven't had a grandfather at my fingertips in ages, I'm going to take every chance I get to see you." A noise from the corner made her look up. "Uh… oh." She looked at him apologetically. "Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't see…"

"It's all right." He patted her hand. "You just beat me to the punch." He smiled. "You may as well tell everyone, the grapevine will be buzzing anyway."

Behind her, Abby mouthed, 'Congratulations!' and looked like she was going to dance with joy at any moment. Instead, she grabbed her intern's hand and tugged her toward the door. "Come on! Hey—did you ever hear the story about Ducky chuckin' this Paris cop off a cliff?"

"There was a lake below!" he yelled after them as the doors shut. "Lord, that story will follow me beyond the grave," he muttered.

There was a soft chuckle from the corner. "Yeah, probably." He heard the click of the glass door opening; moments later the desk drawer next to him slid open and Gibbs removed the two glasses he knew were stashed inside. Ducky glanced up and was met by a noncommittal stare. "It's past five somewhere in the world."

"True." He watched him pour two measures of Scotch, accepting the offered glass.

"So." Gibbs folded his arms, resting his drink on an elbow and staring at him.

After a silence of what felt like geologic era proportions, Ducky finally sighed. "If the girls hadn't left in such a hurry… I would have been delighted to properly reintroduce you to Miss Rowena Cameron—my youngest granddaughter."

Gibbs nodded slowly. "Something you just found out?"

He nodded in kind. "Yes."

Gibbs thought for a long moment. "So, Teri—no, Tori? Tori. She's—"

"My daughter. Yes." He said it almost defiantly.

"And you only met them because Ziva bought you a box of cookies?"

He couldn't help but smile. "Yes."

Gibbs shook his head. "Talk about fate…" After a long moment he held out his glass and clinked it very gently against Ducky's. "Congratulations."

Ducky thought of the unabashed joy his instant family had already brought him and inclined his head, badly suppressing a grin. "Thank you."

Gibbs gave him a wistful smile. "I envy you, Duck." He drowned his words in a gulp of Scotch.

Ducky sighed. _I __don__'__t __doubt __that __you __do_.

/ / / / /

**November 6, 2009**

He wasn't surprised that Director Vance declined the invitation to Thanksgiving dinner; he and his wife had two young children and their own holiday traditions they had established over the years. Ducky made sure that he knew the invitation was sincere and that, no, they wouldn't be putting anyone to any trouble and there was more than enough room… and accepted the second declination with grace.

Gibbs, on the other hand, got his temper a bit ruffled. "Jeez, Duck. This is the first holiday you've had with your family. You just got back with Liz after, what, thirty years? Forty? It's your first holiday with your daughter, with your grandkids—hell, you haven't even _met_ two of them! The last thing you need is a bunch of strangers taking up room at the table!"

"You're right, Jethro," he said a bit sharply. "We don't need, as you put it, a bunch of strangers at the table. But we _do_ need our family and our friends. And there are many friends who are family. How many years have you been coming to Thanksgiving dinner?"

He looked a little embarrassed. "Can't count, Duck. Too many."

"And I understand when people have other commitments, family obligations, when they _can__'__t_ join us—but that we are, in our own way, also a family. If you join us, you won't be 'taking up room' at the table—but if you stay away, there will be a definite emptiness."

"Jeez…" He looked uncomfortable and sighed in exasperation. "Can I ask a question?"

"Certainly."

"If I say no, will you drop it?"

He thought for a moment. "No," he decided. "I'll simply send Elizabeth after you. And if that doesn't work…" He let a slow grin spread over his face. "Rowena. And Abigail… will come to talk to you." He nodded gently. "Together."

Gibbs actually winced. "Man, Ducky. You don't play fair."

He looked surprised. "Whoever told you that I do?"

/ / /

"And you used _me_ as a threat? Well! I like that!" Elizabeth huffed. "And here I thought you loved me."

"Oh, I do, my love, I do." The kiss he gave her was reassuring of that. "It's simply that… you can be a… very persuasive person."

"Persuasive, hunh?" She pushed her foot on the grass, causing the swing to slowly move to and fro. "So… then what was your threat about Ro and Abby?"

"Well…" He laughed. "When the two of them start talking at the same time, it's a bit overwhelming. When Jethro comes into Autopsy with a rather shell-shocked look about him, I don't have to ask. I know. He's been in Forensics, trying to listen to both of the girls at the same time."

"Fool." She draped her arms about his neck, snuggling close under her latest version of a faire cloak that she had pulled out of the attic the day before. "So—you warn him about the ice skating tradition?"

"Mm-hmm." He cocked his head. "He rather smiled when I told him that. Didn't seem to be fazed in the least. And he asked what he could bring."

"And you told him…?"

"Himself. A date or friend if he so desires. And, if he really wants to, a 'side dish or nibble,'" he quoted, ticking the list off on his fingers. "And if he is going to bring something, to please call you with the details by Sunday before—how many people, what he's bringing, how much..."

"Perfect." She rewarded him with a kiss. "What about everyone else?"

"The Director declined—"

"Not surprised. You said he has kids."

"Mmh. Abby, of course, already accepted. Ziva was absolutely thrilled."

"She's a sweet girl. She was so kind at the hospital."

"Ziva… is a lake. Often very quiet and calm on the surface, but great depths to her."

"Ooh. Very poetic. Is she bringing a date?"

"She might. She didn't say yes, she didn't say no—but she turned a very delicate pink when she said that _she_ would love to join us."

"Good enough."

"She will call you when she knows what she plans to bring. And she looked a little apprehensive about the ice skating afterward. But Abby promised that she and Rowena will give her a few practice sessions in the not too distant future."

"Good."

"There was no hesitation from Timothy, Anthony or Jimmy—I think the aspect of dinner caught their attention. Jimmy definitely has a young lady he will be bringing; Timothy has to check with his lady in question and Anthony has been eyeing the new agent who just graduated from FLETC. All of them have been warned about the ice skating. Jimmy looked panicked, Timothy a trifle uncertain… and Anthony wanted to know if all the young ladies will be wearing short skirts."

Elizabeth snorted. "He has a one-track mind, I hear."

"Very."

"You told them—"

"As early as eleven o'clock is acceptable," he said firmly. "Earlier is welcome, but they'll be put to work." He grinned at her. "Ah—tree decorating until two for those so inclined, dinner from two to five or six, skating afterward from seven until eleven, and make sure to bring their singing voices. Festive dress encouraged, casual quite acceptable, formal not required, and appropriate skating clothes for later. Yes, my dear, I remembered everything."

She raked her eyes up and down. "Everything…?" she said suggestively.

"Especially that." He slipped a hand behind her neck, rubbing gently. "Mmh… strawberries," he teased, smelling the scent released as he combed through her hair.

"Yeah… I remembered what you said in the hospital, last time I was shopping."

He leaned close and nuzzled her neck. "It's like going back in time."

"Want to fly to Napa?"

He kissed her hungrily. "Sounds good to me." He groaned softly when she pressed closer, her tongue searching and caressing.

"Whoa! Maybe I should come back later!"

Laughing, he pulled away, bumping his forehead against Elizabeth's. "We're both over eighteen."

"And it _is_ private property," Elizabeth added.

Tori plopped into a wooden lounge chair that matched the swing. "Got an interesting call today."

Elizabeth exchanged a look with Ducky. "Define interesting, " she said.

"Oh God, oh God, we're all going to die," Tori deadpanned.

"Tori!"

"Whoops. Sorry. I forgot—you never saw that movie. Never mind."

"It's as bad as following a conversation with Anthony," Ducky said with a faint frown.

"I'll take that as a compliment, even if it isn't. No—heard from Sam."

"Are he and Elena going to be here?"

Tori nodded. "He asked if the standing invite for his side of the family is still standing."

"I hope you told him yes."

"I did." She pulled a notepad from the pocket of her skirt. "Okay. Sam. Elena. Her brother and his wife—" She peered at the paper. "Jorge and… Selsa? Selsa. They'll be in town from Ohio. And their three kids. You know Gin died a couple of years ago—" Her mother nodded. "—and Joe—well, he's not really there. Three of their kids are still married, they do their own thing, but… Thomas has his kids for the weekend, so does Melanie—"

Elizabeth frowned. "Tommy had… four kids?"

"Five. Alec, the twins, I think they're five?—"

Elizabeth winced faintly. "Oh, yeah. The twins."

"The James boys," Tori muttered. "Andrea and Mary-T, I think they're seven and nine. Melanie stopped at two kids: six and eight? Scott and Elinor. We've basically got one for every year out of diapers, it sounds like."

Elizabeth squared her shoulders. "No problem."

"Uncle Sandy would like to bring his boyfriend—"

"Sure." She rolled her eyes slightly. "Like there should be a question?"

"Ro says she ran into her old coach the other day, her husband's deployed again—"

"Cherie? We always have room for Cherie."

"She and Lou have four kids, now."

"Guess he came home on leave a couple more times," she said under her breath. Ducky bit back a snort of laughter.

"And Patty and Marcie—and they adopted two little girls, we finally get to meet them."

"What caused everyone to accept this time?"

"Well… Sam said partly because of Aunt Gin and Uncle Joe, the kids are feeling kind of at a loss since he went into a nursing home. And when they heard Dennys and Mad and Grandfather Andy will be out—not to mention Ronnie—and Sassy," she added quickly. "Well—it was one of those 'we might never pass this way again' moments. The other kids will probably stop by in the afternoon after their dinner, just to say hi to everyone."

Ducky did some fast addition. "Elizabeth… you're at almost forty people—_without_ everyone from work!"

"Oh! Work!" Tori said. "We've got about five people coming from the shop."

"Good God, we qualify as an emerging nation!"

"Baby—" Elizabeth grinned and gave him a hug. "This is what I live for."

"I'll order nametags," he said numbly. He had attended smaller medical conferences.

"Dad?"

It took him a moment to respond. "Yes, dear?" Dad. It was going to take some getting used to.

"Grandmother will be here, right?"

"Oh, Tori… I don't know if that's such a good idea. I mean, she knows many of the people from work… after a fashion—and, of course, she's seen pictures of you and the children—but it's going to be a large crowd already—"

"But… but, Dad, she's a hundred and one! Not trying to be morbid or depressing, here, but… we might not have many Thanksgivings with her."

He could feel himself wavering. She was looking at him with the doe eyes her daughter had mastered, the look that wrapped him snugly about her little finger. "She's rather confused, dear. It might be upsetting to her."

"Well… then we'll roll with the punches. I mean, come on—a hundred years ago, she wouldn't _be_ in a retirement home. Back then, everyone stayed home." She shrugged and held out her hands. "I heard stories about an uncle on Grandfather's side of the family, fruity as a nutcake, _he_ lived at home—"

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "Oh, yeah."

"He was a published poet. And it was all dictated to him by space aliens… who communicated through the vegetable garden at home. And during thunderstorms, he'd walk around on the widow's walk on top of the house and yell calculus equations at the lightning."

Suddenly his mother sounded sharp as a tack. "We'll give it a try."

"Mom said Grandmother can't walk upstairs, I was going to fix up the little room next to the library for her, it still has a daybed—that way if she gets overtaxed or wants to take a nap, she won't have to go back to the home and miss everything. But if she's uncomfortable with the crowd and wants to go back—I understand." She looked at him hopefully. "I just want her to have the chance to be with her family."

And Gibbs said _he_ didn't play fair. "I… will… do everything in my power to see that this happens."

She beamed at him.

"And now… I have a… technical question of sorts," he said.

"Ooh. Technical," Elizabeth teased. "Go for it."

"When do you start prepping for this… madhouse?"

"I do some shopping a week, week and a half before. Some prep on Sunday, but not much. Mostly Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—you won't see hide nor hair of me from about Tuesday night on."

"So… Saturday, you could… have the day off?"

Tori coughed delicately and Elizabeth gave her an expectant look. "Well… I guess we could get along without you," Tori sighed dramatically. "Pies are pretty simple, it's not like decorating Christmas cakes. But—"

"But, _what?_" Elizabeth said, arms folded.

"I don't know…" Tori looked at her nails in extreme nonchalance. "I just think after all this time you should ask… _someone__'__s_… permission before going out for the evening."

"You're joking."

Tori smiled smugly and hummed to herself.

"She's not—Donald!"

"In the interest of family harmony…" Hell, he was willing to go along with the joke. "Tori… may I take your mother out on a date the afternoon and evening of the twenty-first?"

"Ooooh," she chortled, rubbing her hands together gleefully. "The taste of sweet revenge."

Elizabeth groaned.

Tori pointed a finger. "Ten o'clock curfew."

Ducky tsk'd. "Oh, we won't be back at least before midnight."

"No, no, no. Saturday night—ten o'clock." Tori smiled sweetly. "Be glad it's not a school night. That was nine—and only if your school work was finished."

"We could always just go back to my house," he murmured.

"Ten o'clock," Tori repeated.

"You really made her come home by ten?"

"Damn straight," Elizabeth said.

"Our first date you stayed out until—"

"We are _not_ going there."

Tori sat up attentively. "Oh, ho, how late did she stay out?"

"Traitor." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Two a.m."

Tori's grin grew. "And how much grief did you give me when I was dating Connor?"

"Yes, well I knew he was trouble when I met him—" Elizabeth said with no small amount of spirit.

"Okay, not to be disrespectful, and keeping in mind that you really can't ground me at this age, but… _hello?_"

Elizabeth turned to Ducky. "That's it. I'm running away from home."

Tori was still grinning like a jack o' lantern. "Two a.m. _Two __a.m._ If I didn't love you like crazy and think you're the best mom in the world, I could hang this over your head for soooooo long."

Elizabeth stopped. A smile slowly spread across her face. "Hmm. I wonder what Rowena would say about this. 'Gosh, Mom, if Nana was allowed to stay out until two—'"

Tori narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't." She gasped. "You would!"

"You bet your ass. All's fair in love and war."

Tori threw up her hands. "Fine. Stay out until all hours of the morning. Spend the night at his house. Ruin your reputation."

"Ruin my reputation?" Elizabeth gave her an exasperated look. "I thought Ro and Ronnie had cornered the market on purple prose."

Tori wrinkled her nose. "Too much?"

"Too much."

She shrugged. "Hey. I wasn't an English Lit major. So sue me." She turned to Ducky. "Where are you taking Mom?"

He smiled. "It's a surprise. A concert."

She grinned. "Ro told me you have… interesting taste in music."

"Queen of the Understatement," Elizabeth said.

"What's that… robot something…"

"Android Lust?" he suggested.

"Yeah! That's the one."

"Oh, Donald… Donald, you wouldn't!" Elizabeth's expression started at concern, flew past worry and went straight to horror.

"I believe they have a show in Maryland…"

"Oh, no…"

He patted her hand. "I promise. Something a little more sedate."

She perked up. "Moody Blues?" she teased.

"It's a surprise."

"Okay, okay… is it local?"

"We… will get there within an hour."

"Big help. Philharmonic? Symphony? Opera?"

"No, dear, then I would have said opera—not concert."

"You have two weeks to chew on it," Tori said cheerfully. "Formal dress?"

He hemmed and hawed a moment. "No… nice casual would do fine. What you wore Halloween, for example." She gave him the barest hint of a smile and a flicker of one eyebrow, obviously harking back to when she _wasn__'__t_ wearing her outfit that weekend. "Yes… that would be perfect, I think." He rustled the cloak. "This would be a good thing to bring along; it might get chilly."

"Outdoors?"

"Mmmh… dinner will be. Which I am providing," he quickly added.

"Dinner outside, concert inside?"

"Yes."

He could almost see the wheels turning. "Within an hour?"

Better hedge his bets, keep her guessing. "Mmmh… make it an hour and a half, just to be safe."

"Oh, that helps a lot."

"Glad to be of service."

She tipped her head. "And we're getting out so late that we need to spend the night at your place?"

He grinned. "You'd better believe it."

"And on that note…" Tori hopped off the chair and brushed off the back of her skirt. "Ro is spending the night at Abby's… Dumb question—did anybody start anything for dinner today?"

Elizabeth and Ducky looked at each other in surprise. "Actually… being that it's Friday night, I'd love to take two of my favorite ladies out for dinner at a restaurant of their choosing," he said smiling from one to the other.

Tori grinned at her mother. "He's fast. And smooth."

Elizabeth smiled up at him. "_You__'__d_ better believe it.

* * *

><p>22<p> 


	23. Reprise Natural

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Reprise Natural**

_**Reprise:** To repeat  
>a previous part of a<br>composition generally  
>after other music<br>has been played.  
><em>_**Natural:** A symbol  
>in sheet music that<br>returns a note to its  
>original pitch after it<br>has been augmented  
>or diminished.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>November 20, 2009<strong>

Silence.

To make up for a particularly hectic week, Ducky had been gifted with a three-day weekend. Elizabeth was at the shop, but planned to drive directly to his house after she left. Until then…

Silence.

No more Corgis running about the place. Almost two weeks ago, Mrs. Neiderland had faced the heartbreaking task of putting down her beloved Emmaline; upon hearing that Ducky felt he wasn't doing right by his mother's dogs, she had happily taken all four into her home (feeling that it wouldn't be fair to split them up after all this time) and promising they would visit his mother at least once a week.

It was odd—after putting up with their noise and mess for so many years… he actually missed them.

Of course, the house wasn't technically _empty_…

Upon hearing that he was now "alone," Rowena had—without consulting him—presented him with two "mutt" kittens, littermates who looked about as much alike as Venus Williams and the planet by the same name. At first he was mildly horrified—he'd gotten rid of four pets, only to have two new ones replace them… but quickly discovered that being owned by a cat wasn't so bad. No daily walks. They amused themselves, playing endless games of "tag" or he could leave toys around and if they were so inclined, they'd play with them. Gravity food feeder and self-cleaning litter box brought necessary attention down to once or twice a week. They were very self-sufficient creatures.

Another plus: they preferred to sleep on the rug by his bed instead of at the foot. No glowing eyes scaring him half to death at 3:00 a.m.

And thus far they showed a disinclination to tackle him when entering the front door.

They did, however, insist upon sitting in the kitchen when he cooked, whether it was toast and tea or full-blown dinner. He understood that from their perspective a bird in the hand (so to speak) was not necessarily better than two in the bush. Kibble was nice, but if there was the possibility of cleaning his plate after dinner, they were willing to wait. This time they were sitting squarely by the back door, tails neatly wrapped around their feet and staring at him as he worked. "There's not enough to share," he told them firmly. "Two of us—two game hens. Sorry."

It was harder than he thought it would be, trying to remember a recipe from forty years ago… one he had only tasted, never heard or read. He had even tried asking Tori and Rowena, but both came up blank. They knew the food quite well, but it was a recipe Elizabeth pulled from her memory, not her card file. (Dessert, however, Tori was more than happy to supply, particularly after he had given her the details of the weekend—after swearing her to secrecy.)

Game hens cooked, cooled, wrapped and refrigerated, he took pity on the cats and skimmed off the better drippings from the pan and put them on small paper plates for the cats (who still wandered about, nameless). He was willing to swear they had exchanged looks that plainly meant, "Told you he'd give in eventually." Rowena was right when she corrected him—one didn't _own_ a cat, one was owned _by_ a cat.

He continued to recreate Elizabeth's picnic as best he could, with an occasional twist of his own: artichoke hearts added to the salads, pita chips instead of greasy potato chips—the basic melody was the same, just with his own flourishes.

He had just finished the gelatin salads when he heard the crunch of tires in the driveway. He couldn't help but smile; there was something so homey about having her spend the weekend. _Especially __since __we __don__'__t __have __to __wait __for __her __parents __to __go __out __of __town, _he thought.

_No__… __you __just __had __to __ask __your __**daughter **__for __permission __to __go __out._ He shook his head. _Ouch._

"Mother is home," his whispered to the cats, hearing the front door lock open. They knew who the more-trained-by-cats person was and streaked from the room.

"Oh, poor babies, are you starving?" floated in from the hall.

"Ha!" he called out loudly.

"Well, that's what they're telling me," she said with a laugh, coming into the kitchen.

He took her hands in his. "You look so adorable." He actually liked the almost Victorian outfit that was the store uniform.

She laughed and shook her head. "You know, for a while there we toyed with the notion of opening a second store. Oh, thank you," she said, accepting a glass of wine and taking a sip. "Ooh, nice and sweet. Second store, right. We were going to do an old fashioned malt shop, the young men dressed as soda jerks, the girls in poodle skirts—it just never happened."

He grinned and looked at her over the top of his glasses. "That could have been interesting, I remember how those skirts would fly when we were dancing—"

"I _never_ wore a poodle skirt when we went dancing!"

"Ah. Before our time, dear."

She pursed her lips and gave him a mildly dirty look. "I don't want to hear word one about your other flames—before or after."

"You're the only one on the list who matters."

"Good answer."

He leaned over and kissed her, just a light, welcome home-type kiss, but it quickly intensified. "Mmmh, you're right. That wine is sweet."

"So are you." She gave him a last, quick kiss. "What's for dinner?"

"You were saying you hadn't had pork chops in a while—"

She grinned. "Pork chops?"

"No… pork medallions in a mushroom cream sauce, wild rice with—again—mushrooms and slivered almonds, and starting with a salad with a particularly lovely vinaigrette—and ending with chopped baked apples over French vanilla ice cream." He inclined his wineglass. "Used in the salad dressing, the cream sauce and the apples."

She shook her head. "Have I told you today that I love you?"

"This is the first time you've seen me today."

"Ah. How remiss of me." She set her wineglass down and wrapped her arms around him, resting their foreheads together. "I love you," she said softly. She grinned. "And not just because you've turned into a fabulous chef."

"But that's part of it."

"A little bit." She kissed him quickly. "Please tell me I have time to change."

"You have time to change… if you can do it in fifteen minutes."

"Ten. I just want some hot water pounding on my neck for a couple of minutes."

"A woman who appreciates the good things in life. As we are dining _en __famille_… feel free to come down in your robe."

She gave him a sly look. "_Just_… my robe?"

He grinned. "It depends on what you have planned for after dinner."

/ / /

"Mmmmh, what did they call you in school, Magic Fingers Mallard?"

"No," he laughed. "Just Ducky."

Elizabeth leaned back against his chest while he worked on the knots in her neck and shoulders. He wanted her relaxed and mellow the next day. (To be honest, he wanted her relaxed and mellow that night, too.) "You are incredible," she signed.

"Thank you."

"Extraordinary masseur… fabulous chef… gifted storyteller…" Her smile broadened. "Incomparable lover…"

"Now you get to the good parts."

"Mmh." She shook her head. "Okay, this is where my brain starts to bleed."

"What's wrong?"

She jerked her chin toward the television. "Okay, he already met this girl, but she was dead, so he didn't really meet her. Now he's gone back in time _before_ she's killed, but he's _already_ _there_ and the bad guy trapped him in the car that went off the ferry so now _he__'__s_ dead and she's _not_ dead when he first would have met her when she _was_ dead—and here he is, he's _not_ dead even though he's _dead_? I'm lost."

He laughed softly and worked on a particularly fierce knot. Elizabeth hissed softly, but he could tell she didn't want him to stop. "I told you we should have watched _Murder __By __Death_."

"Time travel stories are great until you start to think. Okay, you go back to change something tragic, but what if you just make it worse?"

"If… you and I had stayed together, we probably would have been in England. I probably would have only done the one tour in Viet Nam…"

"You might not have gone on the orphan flights."

"True."

"Maybe there are children from that flight who are alive today because of you."

He kissed the top of her head. It was a sweet thought, really.

"You wouldn't have gone to Afghanistan… ow, ow, right there… you wouldn't have become a medical examiner, you'd've stayed a GP, maybe a surgeon..."

"But if we had stayed in England, Tori would have never met Sam, we wouldn't have our three fabulous grandchildren."

She frowned. "True."

"But, if we _were_ together, Walter wouldn't have had a chance to hurt you—"

"Gene and Tish might still be alive."

"But, for that matter, because we were in a different place in time, _I_could have met the same fate as Gene instead—"

She quickly reached up and silenced him with a hand over his mouth. "See? This is why I don't like time travel stories."

He aimed the remote at the television. "There."

She began to chuckle. "_The __Incredibles_?"

"Well—there will be what sounds like a couple of dozen children at dinner Thursday, and any year now we'll start getting announcements from Drew or Bronwyn or Rowena… I figured it's never too late to start becoming more familiar with what appeals to children."

"One word, baby," she laughed. "X-BOX."

/ / / / /

**November 21, 2009**

Ducky cracked open his eyes and the hand on his chest stilled.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"'s okay," he murmured with a smile. "I don't mind."

"You sure?"

"Mm-hmm," He reached over and gathered her closer. "I like… waking up and finding your hands running all over my body."

She chuckled softly. "Oh, really?"

"Oh, really. I remember being awakened in a particularly wonderful manner…"

She nodded, her head rubbing against his chest. "Ah, yes, the weekend my parents were in San Diego."

"Mmh. I thought, 'If I'm dreaming, I don't _ever_ want to wake up.' Heaven on earth."

She reached up and tapped him very lightly on the tip of his nose. "You gave me the idea the week before. That was how _you_ woke _me_ up one morning."

"I did?" he gasped in mock innocence.

She pulled back and leaned on her hand, staring down at him. She was wide awake, and the glint in her eyes probably mirrored his own. "You gave me a hell of a lot of ideas, Donald Mallard."

"What ideas do you have now?"

She sat up, threw a leg over him and leaned down. "Let's see," she purred, combing her fingers through the hair on his chest. She played with one nipple while biting and sucking the other—hard. "Got any favorites you want the DJ to play?"

He grabbed her hips and rubbed against her. "I'm going to let the DJ choose her own hit parade."

"What time do we have to leave?"

"Four-thirty… in the afternoon."

"It's just past midnight." She grinned and wriggled her hips. "Hot damn."

/ / /

"Before we go anywhere…" Ducky reached out and took Elizabeth's right hand. "I've been meaning to do this for a couple of weeks." She smiled as he unhooked her bracelet and carefully moved it to her left wrist. "There." He fastened the catch and placed a long, warm kiss on her wrist. "Back where it belongs."

Her eyes were suspiciously moist as she pressed against him for a tight hug. "Don't let go."

"I won't."

"Not ever."

He let out a deep breath. "Not ever." After a long moment, he tipped her chin up. "Of course… it will make it difficult to drive…"

"Oh… all right." She slipped into the passenger seat, her cloak folded on her lap. "Where are we going?" she asked casually.

He almost told her. "Sneaky. It's still a surprise."

She sighed. "I can't help but try."

They kept up a light patter of conversation as the landscape rolled by, turning from Virginia to D.C. He could see her peering at the buildings trying to figure out what they had passed and what they had yet to see.

"Lincoln Center?"

"No."

She frowned. "D.A.R. Hall?"

He shook his head. "No. But even if you guess correctly," he added, "I'll still say no. It's a surprise."

"Ah—why are we stopping here?" she asked uncertainly as they pulled up in front of the tearoom.

"You stay put. Hands folded, like a—"

"Don't you _dare_ say it."

"I'll be right back." He leaned over and dropped a kiss to her cheek.

Inside, the place was packed. Customers were in every seat, and the line for the counter wound around the store like a queue for Disneyworld. Fortunately, his package was waiting in Tori's office. Halfway there, he felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. "Abby!"

"Ducky!" She almost knocked her chair over in her haste to hug him.

"And Ziva!" he managed, his chin jostled by Abby's shoulder. "What are you young ladies doing here?"

"Waiting for Ro, she came in to help. We're taking Ziva for another skating lesson," Abby beamed. While Ziva didn't look wildly enthusiastic, neither did she look ready to bolt and run. "What about you?" She looked at him expectantly.

"Actually, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Tori has something set aside for me; Elizabeth and I are going to a concert this evening, with a picnic beforehand. I'm just here to pick up dessert."

"You didn't make dessert?" she asked in astonishment.

"Well… this item has a certain nostalgic quality that will bring back particularly… pleasant memories."

A grin spread across her face. "You go, Ducky."

"So I shall." As he passed the table he leaned over to give Ziva a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I have not had a chance to speak to you privately of late, Ducky," she said, her voice low. He looked at her in mild concern. "I have heard of your good fortune. A daughter. A grandson. Two granddaughters." There was a hint of sadness in her eyes even though her smile was warm. "_Mazel __tov_. You are… truly blessed."

Poor child… she had lost her mother, her sister, her brother—her relationship with her father was strained to the point of nonexistence. "I am," he said gently. "For my family… and my friends." He gave her hand a light squeeze. At her slight nod he patted her hand and continued toward the back office.

"I was wondering if you got lost!" Tori handed him a small zippered cooler. "She'll need x-ray vision to figure out what's for dessert." She held up a hand. "I hope the cake turned out right, it's not something we have on the menu."

"I'm sure it will be fine." He gave her a quick kiss. "You're an angel."

She smiled at him. "Anything for my Mom and Dad." She grinned and hugged herself.

He allowed himself the luxury of stopping to give her a long hug. "Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night… I'm afraid this has all been some extremely long, pleasant dream. And I look on the dresser, and there… is a picture of my daughter." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "My not so little girl." He sighed. "I wish I could tell you what it feels like to hear you say, 'Dad.'"

She looked up at him with eyes that were so familiar. "I think I have an idea what it feels like." She reached up and brushed the hair from his forehead, reminding him so much of her mother. "Now, you'd better get out of here before she does something sneaky—like call the local radio station and find out what concerts are playing!"

He looked at her in shock. "Good God, I'm surprised she didn't do that already."

Tori smiled. "She tried to, online. Ro got Abby to put a block on the computers so she couldn't access any concert information."

"I owe Abby for that one."

She waved a hand. "Extra skating lessons, trust me. Now—go!" She pushed him toward the door.

Back at the car, he stopped and burst out laughing. Elizabeth was sitting in the far passenger seat, hands folded and twiddling her thumbs, head canted back and staring at the interior roof with the most absurd expression of docility imaginable. Hearing him laugh she turned and gave him a look of utter innocence. "Yes?" she called through the closed window.

Still chuckling, he shook his head and tucked the small cooler in the boot. "Now," he said as he slipped into the driver's seat, "one last thing."

Her smile faded as she saw the black sleep mask he was holding up. "Donald… what exactly do you have in mind?" She gave him a risqué look.

"What I have in mind… is keeping this trip a secret until the last moment." He crooked his finger; she sighed and leaned over and he slid the elasticized satin over her eyes.

"I feel like I'm playing _I__'__ve __Got __a __Secret_," she grumbled.

"And—" He tied a scarf over the mask.

"Department of Redundancy Department? Mask on a mask?"

"Just in case the mask slips and you conveniently forget to tell me."

"Such trust."

"And don't worry—it's black, matches your outfit."

"Stylin'." They pulled away from the curb and she grabbed for the door with one hand and his arm with the other. "Sorry!" She pulled her right hand back, clutching at her cloak. "Rule number one, don't mess with the driver."

"Are you all right?" Belatedly he remembered her occasional problems with motion sickness in years past.

"I will be, I will be… it's just—realllllly freaky, not seeing anything and flying down the road—I know you're driving the limit—"

"Under."

"But I swear we're the fastest car on the Autobahn. You've got to be doing freeway speed, minimum."

"Not even thirty."

She made a faint noise of distress.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"You drive. I'll talk. Talk. What do I talk about? Thanksgiving, there we go. Let's see, Ziva is bringing a friend from her citizenship class, a young woman from Israel, I think her name is Tovah, Ziva's bringing a couple of kinds of couscous, her friend is bringing roasted vegetables in a curry sauce with rice on the side, God, it feels like you're going ninety!"

"Sorry." He had doubled back and was driving the route he normally took home.

"No, no, it's okay. Ah. Abby. She's flying solo, she's bringing a surprise, something Creole, a recipe of her grandmother's—and cranberry sauce, her grandmother's cranberry sauce. Timothy is coming with a young woman he met at a writer's conference, Ro heard he has a sister, I asked if she was coming, he kind of dithered around so I just told him to bring her along."

Ducky laughed. "Good call."

"He's bringing good old fashioned potato salad, his sister is bringing stuffed zucchini and his fellow writer is bringing a tray of crudités. I tried to tell him that one was more than enough, none were expected—but he insisted."

"That's Timothy. He will probably bring a bottle of wine as well; he's an extremely well-mannered guest."

"Anthony is also flying solo—"

"Oh?" McGee with two young women—granted, one was his sister, but still—and Anthony DiNozzo on his own? What a surprise.

"He didn't say, but I got the idea that the young agent he was pursuing shut the gate pretty firmly."

"I doubt he'll lack for company."

"Oh, no. We've got plenty of 'friends of' coming as well. There will be at least a dozen young women in his age range with whom to flirt. Oh—he's bringing a cheese and fruit and cracker array." She grinned; she was becoming more at ease with being in the darkness. "Jimmy Palmer and his young lady—Donald, what have you done to that poor boy?"

"Jimmy?" he said in astonishment.

"I can't figure out if he worships you or is terrified of you. I think we talked for a half hour and the salient facts I finally gleaned were: yes, he will be delighted to attend; yes, he will be bringing a date—I never got her name; and, yes, he will be bringing macaroni and cheese casserole. The other half hour…?" She made a confused motion with her hands that tallied with the furrow in her brow. "I—have—no idea—what we said."

"That… often happens with Mr. Palmer. But he's a good lad, truly he is." He ticked off the names in his head. "That leaves… Agent Gibbs," he said formally.

Elizabeth grinned. "Ah, yes. Jethro Gibbs. He has promised to be there at the crack of dawn to move furniture—his suggestion. He asked what time I would be getting up and I said, 'That implies that I went to bed.' He said he remembered his grandmother getting up at two in the morning to start things and I told him he nailed it perfectly. So he's going to be there around five or six."

"You're joking."

"Not even. He's a very hands-on person, I gather, likes to feel useful."

He nodded. "That's a fair assessment."

"Then he asked what he could bring—and I told him if he was schlepping furniture, that was way more than enough. The way he said, 'Mmh,' makes me think he's bringing something anyway. Besides going back to fetch his date, I mean."

Ducky almost drove into the opposite direction of traffic. "Date?"

"Yes, a sweet young lady named Faith. She called to ask if it would be okay to bring wine, I said yes, we chatted—"

"Faith… Coleman?"

"That sounds right."

A collection of relatives that sounded like they were from the Monty Python version of Alice's trip through Wonderland, friends ranging from the unruffled to the unreal, a houseful of children—some of whom, by Rowena's muttered comments (when she asked him to spike the kiddy punch with sleeping pills), could serve as poster children for vigilance in the use of birth control, his mother (who had accepted with frightening alacrity—and insisted upon helping to cook until Rowena told her that the guest of honor wasn't allowed to cook) holding court… and Faith Coleman, JAG lawyer.

The heck with spiking the punch. He'd probably have to sedate DiNozzo before the second course.

Ducky grinned. "This is going to be one holiday for the books."

Apparently Elizabeth had taken stock of the players and scenarios and came to a similar conclusion. "I'm charging the camcorder batteries. Are they still running _Funniest __Home __Videos_? I figure we can give them five or six episodes." She laughed. "Not to mention the blackmail possibilities."

"God, I'm glad you're on my side."

She turned to 'look' at him, her face a little unnerving with its black mask. She gave him a sly smirk. "Who said I am?"

/ / /

Ducky followed the parking attendant's swinging arms and pulled into the slot. Good; from here they wouldn't be able to see the marquee.

"Are we here?" Elizabeth asked hopefully.

"Yes."

She reached to take off her mask and stopped. "May I?"

He grinned. "My, you trained up quickly," he said, untying the scarf.

Elizabeth pulled off the satin mask and stuck out her tongue. "Neyh."

"Now… you know what happens when you do that." He reached over and slipped a hand behind her neck, leaning her over for a kiss… followed by a second and a third, until she pulled back with a wince.

"Damn stick shift."

"There are times an automatic is preferable," he admitted, opening his door.

Elizabeth had already alighted and leaned on the top of the car, arms folded beneath her chin. "Remember that Chevvy you had in California?"

He cocked his head and smiled at her. "Oh, my, yes. With great fondness."

"But…" She stroked his car fondly and he laughed. "Not nearly the style of this elegant lady."

"You're rather sexist, you know."

"Well!"

"No—you've decided my automobile is female, _your_ car is female, I remember your guitar—"

She threw up her hands. "Will it make you feel better if I tell you all my big appliances are male?" At his look she started ticking off on her fingers. "The ovens—Bert and Ernie. The washer—George. The dryer—George. The freezer—George."

"How can they all be George?" he asked patiently, unloading the hampers.

"What—you've never heard of George Foreman's kids?" She held out a hand; when he hesitated, she held up her first two fingers. "Scout's honor, I won't peek." Laughing, he handed over the cooler with the dessert and held out his arm. She slipped her hand through the crook and set a slow pace from the parking lot. "Hmm… Wolf Trap." He looked at her sharply. "I still don't know whom we are seeing," she hastily assured him. "I just recognized Wolf Trap Filene Center. We've come here a lot over the years."

He shook his head. "So have I. Frequently with Mother. I've lived here all this time… How did we keep missing each other?"

"I don't know." She stopped and looked into his eyes. "But I'm so very glad that we didn't miss the next twenty. Or forty." She gave his arm a light squeeze.

He led them to a nice spot on the grass. "Hour and a half until the show."

Elizabeth spread out her cloak to use as a blanket. "Why did you drive all to hell and gone when this is right between our houses?"

"Well… I did have to stop off and pick up dessert."

"You could have done that yesterday."

He grinned. "I also had the intention of confusing you. I wanted to keep you guessing."

"It worked." As he unpacked their cold supper, she looked around. "Hmm. Lots of tie-dye… bell bottoms…" She scratched her nose. "Grateful Dead?"

He laughed. "Good Lord, do they still do concerts?"

"Not with Jerry, that's for sure." She was still looking around. "Rolling Stones?"

He shook his head. "Not even close."

"Abba?"

He laughed again. "Highly doubtful."

She looked at the food he had spread out and had an expression of vague recognition in her eyes. "Wait… a…" She tipped her head to one side. "Our first date. Hollywood Bowl."

He gave her a gracious nod. "A close approximation."

"Oh, Donald," she sighed. She carefully leaned over the plates. "You are such a romantic."

"Occasionally." He kissed her lightly.

She laughed. "More than occasionally, in my opinion."

He handed her a bottle of lemon-flavored sparkling water. "Neither of us seems to have taken the soda pop habit into our later years…"

"Upon the rarest occasion." She rolled her eyes. "A lot of things I can't eat nowadays."

He sighed. "Amen."

She laughed as he pulled things from the cooler. "Plastic milk jugs full of ice?"

"It's much easier to find plastic jugs than the old milk cartons—and these don't leak as much."

"Why not just use blue ice?"

He looked at her in mild exasperation. "Because these we can throw out and not have to drag back home… and I'm a traditionalist. A very wise Girl Scout taught me this trick." He winked at her and got a laugh in return.

At his urging, they began to eat. To his disappointment, the game hens didn't taste quite like what he remembered from Elizabeth's picnic, but she certainly didn't seem to mind. "Oh, God, Donald, this is incredible. The best I've ever had. And I am _not_ exaggerating. Please, please, _please_ give me the recipe?"

"I have it from a reliable source that you don't have _your_ game hen recipe written down."

She shook her head, her mouth full. She tapped her forehead and swallowed. "That's not cooking, that's just… cooking. It's up here."

"Well…" He picked up a tiny drumstick. "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine." He took a bite.

Elizabeth snorted with laughter—and seltzer water. To the consternation of those around her, she coughed and choked, waving aside his guilty ministrations. "I'm fine," she wheezed. "Not for lack of you trying to kill me!"

"Now, why would I try to kill you?" he said reasonably, once he was certain she was all right. "I'm not on your insurance policy."

She shook her head. "Forty years…"

"Pardon?" he said innocently.

"Nothing."

She heartily approved of his other changes and additions. "You know, if I'm smart, I'm going to come down with a convenient case of amnesia and just let you take over all the cooking," she said as they cleaned up from the main courses.

"Ah, but now that you've told me, that will never fly."

She turned to him with widened eyes and raised brows. "Who ahm Ah?" she said wistfully. "Wheah ahm Ah?"

"You are the woman who will have plenty of explaining to do to about a hundred hungry people this Thursday if you don't reprogram that computer upstairs—pronto."

She sighed. "Ooh. Good point. Oh, well… next week."

"Close your eyes."

She laughed. "Donald, I've got a pretty good idea—"

"Oh… play along. Please?"

Laughing, she shut her eyes. He carefully arranged the cake on the plate. "It's safe."

She opened her eyes and grinned. "Hey, looks exactly like I remember." She looked up at him. "Tori?"

"Who else?" He cut off a bite and held it out to her.

She nodded as she took the cake into her mouth. "She nailed it."

"She wanted to know why you never put it on the menu."

Her look became a little wistful. "Well… it was ours."

He nodded slowly. That was explanation enough. He took a bite. "You're right. It's exactly as I remember it."

"Y'know…" She reached out and ran a finger over his jaw. "I think, now… I'd like to add it to the menu. Maybe it will be magic for someone else."

He smiled. "I don't mind sharing 'our' cake."

"You were the first." After a moment she squeezed her eyes shut and ducked her head. "Oh, God. I can't believe I said that. I swear, I didn't—"

He hadn't realized what she had said until that moment. He tried not to laugh, but the chuckles slipped through. "Well… I _was_," he said, giving in to full, ear-to-ear-grin laughs.

Elizabeth had her face buried in her hands. "Oh. God," was all she could manage.

"I'll say this…"

She half moaned. "What?"

"You are always entertaining, my dear!"

She just gave another low moan and dropped her head lower. He laughed and took another bite of cake. "Hey!" came from her almost buried face. "Sharing is a good thing!"

Grinning, he held out a forkful. After a moment her head appeared, almost like a turtle. Biting carefully she slowly scraped the cake off the fork… then returned to her shell. Ducky laughed and shook his head. He'd never thought of the past forty years as boring, but without Elizabeth they had definitely lacked a certain spice. He reached out and brushed a fingertip under her chin until she emerged, still with an, 'I can't believe I said that!' look on her face. He continued to lightly tap her chin, moving his hand and her chin closer until she was within kissing distance. "You'd think after forty years I'd have learned to stop opening my mouth and letting ditzy things fall out," she sighed.

He touched a kiss to her lips, tasting chocolate and mint. "But that's one of the things I love about you."

She snorted lightly. "How did I get so lucky?"

He grinned. Yes… a little spice was nice.

/ / /

Elizabeth turned in her seat, folded her arms and gave him a smug look. "You're a fibber."

"I beg your pardon?" he laughed.

"I just overheard some of the people talking in the rows behind us." She nodded her head in that direction. "Moody Blues. You said we _weren__'__t_ seeing the Moodies."

He held up a finger. "A-ta-ta. When you asked about the Moody Blues, I said it was a surprise. I didn't directly conform or deny the planned program. The only thing I corrected was when you said 'opera' and I told you that if I had _meant_ opera I would have _said_ opera." He smiled. "As a matter of fact, as late as today I told you that if you did guess correctly I would deny it, because I wanted to keep the surprise. That was not 'fibbing'—I was being totally upfront about any denials on my part." She laughed and shook her head. "Surprised?"

"Because you've been such a traditionalist the rest of this evening… no. But in actuality…" She leaned over and kissed him gently. "Yes. Very pleasantly surprised." She smiled and sighed. "You are the sweetest man…"

"Don't tell my colleagues," he joked. "I _do_ have a reputation to protect." He rubbed his fingers nervously.

"Oh, horsefeathers," she said cheerfully. "I hate to burst your bubble—"

"Then don't."

"I'm going to anyway. You may think that _they_ think you're this tough, brusque martinet—"

"Scrabble!"

"Eight letters, only works if I'm building off a tile," she shot back without having to think. "Nice distraction. Donald. Face it, everyone in that office loves you to death. Even poor Jimmy Palmer, quaking in his boots—"

"He doesn't wear boots."

She sighed dramatically. "Oh, all right. Fine. If you want to think you're this big, tough, ass-whupping, _cop_-_tossing_—"

He looked at her sharply. "Who—"

She looked away in dramatic innocence. "La, la, la…"

"Abigail?"

"La, la—"

"Rowena?" He almost pouted. "My Ro told you?"

She grinned. "Sisterhood is powerful."

That decided it. "Abby," he said grimly. He wagged a finger. "There was a lake below—"

"Lucky it hadn't dried up."

Good point. "Please… promise me that story won't make the rounds of the Thanksgiving table? It will be difficult enough facing your father—" _(Not __to __mention __your __brother.)_ "—after all this time without that story dodging my every step."

"Me? Cross my heart." She demonstrated. "Now, Ro and Abby…" She bit her lip.

"I'll have a chat with them," he said firmly.

"Maybe that rep of yours is justified." She arranged her cloak over them and snuggled into his shoulder. "Just like old times," she sighed.

"Yes… but I think we should be a little more decorous in our behavior than we were in the past."

She pulled back slightly. "Hey, we were paragons of blinking virtue at that concert."

He grinned down at her. "And that was one of the few times we _weren__'__t_ huddled beneath your cloak."

She thought a minute. "You're right."

"And when we _were_…"

She giggled. "Yeah, we definitely weren't paragons of virtue. And don't you dare tell any of the kids—"

"Are you joking? It's my reputation up for dissection as much as yours."

She laughed and settled her head back on his shoulder. "Forty years," she sighed. "Damn. That was an incredible concert. You think they'll look any older?" she teased.

"I'd be worried if they don't."

"Mmh."

He rubbed his hand over his thigh; he wasn't sweating, but he sure was shaking. _God, __you__'__d __think__…_ He almost laughed. _Yes__… __I __was __a __bit __of __a __mess __back __then, __too._ He tightened the arm he had about her waist and she snuggled closer. "Ealasaid?"

She didn't answer. He turned slightly to look at her and was surprised to find her mouth slightly ajar, as though she had gasped softly, her eyes tightly shut. She smiled faintly under his gaze, even with her eyes closed. "That's—" She swallowed. "That's the first time you've called me that since…"

He quickly ran through the past months. By God… she was right. "I guess… I just associated it with the store so much, now…"

She nodded. "I understand." Her smile was a little sad.

He rested his cheek against hers. "Would you rather I not?" he whispered.

She leaned against his cheek. "Elizabeth in public…"

He smiled in remembrance. "Ealasaid in private." He hugged her. "_Very_ private." He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. "Do you remember when I gave you that bracelet?"

"Every second." She let out a long sigh.

"I was… so nervous," he said with a laugh. No, no—that wasn't what he'd wanted to say!

"I remember. You were all flushed and your hands were shaking…" She trailed off, perhaps realizing that the hand on her waist was trembling.

"I told you… the bracelet was just temporary—"

She nodded. "Like a… fraternity pin," she said slowly.

"I—asked you to marry me," he said, as firmly as he could.

"Yes." She nodded again. "You did."

"Ealasaid…" He sighed. "We have lost forty years. We can't get them back."

She shook her head silently, her eyes closed.

"Forty years ago, I asked you to be my wife… and you said yes." She nodded slowly, eyes still closed. "Our life together was—interrupted." That was a polite word for it. "But we can bring our lives together again."

Around them, the audience was starting to quiet in anticipation of the concert starting.

No way in hell was he going to stop, now. "I want to have you in my life for the rest _of_ my life. I want our daughter, our grandchildren—God willing, our great-grandchildren around me, around us. But you, especially you. I want you. You once said a ceremony couldn't make you any more my wife than you were when I placed that bracelet on your wrist… but I _want_ that ceremony. I want everyone to see us stand together as husband and wife for the next forty years."

She still had her eyes closed, but she was smiling—and there were the tiniest of tears caught in the corners of her eyes.

"For the second time in my life, Ealasaid… I am asking you to marry me."

Her eyes opened slowly and searched his face. After the longest moment she leaned forward and kissed him very softly, her lips trembling. "And for the second time in my life… I'm saying yes."

By the time she pulled back he had slipped his hand from his pocket. He held up his thumb and forefinger, a ring gently held between them. When he had returned from California, he had stared at it almost every day, holding it in his hand, imagining it on the finger of his beloved. When Julia had divided them with her sweetly poisonous words his grandmother had silently placed the ring back in her jewelry box where it sat until her death. He hadn't even realized it was in his mother's possession until she joined him in Virginia, when he collected the valuables together for an insurance assessment.

For much of the past two months he had gone home, pulled the ring out from the wall safe, stared at it… then put it away. Until that afternoon. That afternoon he had slipped away from Elizabeth, hidden the ring in his jacket pocket, and patted it every few minutes to assure himself that, yes, he had brought it along.

Elizabeth stared at the ring. "It was your great-grandmother's," she finally said.

He smiled. She remembered. Of course she would remember. "And she would be so glad to see you wear it." Well—Grandmother Kittridge would be. From what he'd heard, her mother was much like her, so he didn't qualify this as a jet-black lie. Maybe just light ash gray one.

Elizabeth's hand was shaking as he slipped the ring on her finger. She pressed her lips together. "It's—a perfect fit." She burst into tears.

He couldn't help but laugh as he hugged her. "First time I asked you, you almost fainted. This time, you start crying."

"Yeah," she gulped. "You'd better not ask me a third time, God knows what I'd do."

"I think in this case… the second time is the charm." He pulled back and smiled down at her. Over her shoulder, he could see a couple of people a few rows back pointing and applauding. The concert was coming close to a start.

No… they were pointing at _them_, applauding _them_.

"Oh, dear."

"What?"

The young man directly behind them gave him a thumbs-up with both hands. "Congrats, dude."

_Congrats, __dude. __Good __Lord._ "Ah…" He nodded slightly and she glanced around.

The word had spread to about a dozen people in all who looked their way, pointed, waved and gave general gestures of approval. "Well… it could be worse." He looked at her in surprise. "They could be doing the wave."

He burst into laughter. "Trust you to keep things in perspective." He shook his head. "Somehow I thought asking you in the middle of a crowd of strangers would be more private than in the middle of a houseful of Thanksgiving guests."

"Oh, if those were your choices, this is definitely the more private. You'll have to lock me in the bathroom to get privacy on Thursday."

He grinned. "The master bath with the Jacuzzi?"

"Of course."

The lights began to dim just as the background orchestra started up. He cocked his head; it wasn't a tune he readily recognized.

Elizabeth plainly did. At first she smiled, then tears began to fall in earnest "Perfect," she whispered, gulping. "It's… perfect."

The members of the actual band—now three, as opposed to the four he remembered—strode onstage, waving to the audience and acknowledging the cheers and yells. They picked up guitars and took place behind drums and joined with the orchestra. Yes, they had aged over the past four decades… but their music had only improved. When the cheers had dropped to a low enough level, they began to sing, laser lights a haunting counterpoint as they searched over the audience. Ducky concentrated on the words while Elizabeth shook her head slowly, eyes closed, still smiling… still crying, tears spilling on his shoulder.

"_I know you're out there somewhere,  
>Somewhere, somewhere—<br>I know I'll find you somewhere,  
>And somehow I'll return again to you."<em>

He drew in a shaky breath. She was right.

It was perfect.

* * *

><p>23<p> 


	24. Vamp 'Til Cue

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Vamp 'Til Cue**

_**Vamp**** '****til ****cue:** A jazz, fusion,  
><em>_and musical theater term which  
><em>_instructs rhythm section members  
><em>_to repeat and vary a short passage,  
><em>_riff, or "groove" until the band leader  
><em>_or conductor instructs them  
><em>_to move onto the next section._

* * *

><p><strong>November 25, 2009<strong>

Ducky was looking forward to the coming days with a combination of joy and terror that made his stomach do a do-si-do from the moment he woke up ten minutes before the alarm went off.

His first Thanksgiving with Elizabeth. His first Thanksgiving with his daughter. His first Thanksgiving with his grandchildren. (God bless Tori for sparing Elizabeth the awkwardness of telling Drew and Bronwyn of the correct family line. Drew's response had been a mildly puzzled, "Oh. Okay. I kinda had a feeling but I thought I'd sound like a dope if I said anything." Bronwyn had been tired, having done a week of studio sessions every day and rehearsals for a show every night, and had somehow interpreted her mother's talk that Ducky still lived in Scotland and was taking her grandmother away to live there. Her hysteria calmed when Dennys stepped in, talked to Tori for a few minutes and clarified things. After that, her reaction was quite similar to Drew's. "I just knew there was more than you were telling us. Is he nice? Maddie and Den say he was.")

_That_ was good news. At least he wasn't in Dennys' black book. But that probably had more to do with discovering his mother's hand in things than anything else. (Perhaps there had originally been a little guilt working on his side, until he learned of his mother's deception. After all, he had known in Napa that they were sleeping together; if he had prevented it…!)

But then there was Dr. Stewart.

Ducky almost groaned.

"Are you all right Dr. Mallard?"

Apparently he had. "I'm fine, Jimmy. Just a wee bit of an upset stomach."

"Oh, gosh. Can I get you something?" He looked almost panicked.

He remembered Elizabeth's tease—that she couldn't tell if Jimmy idolized him or was terrified of him. "Actually—yes, Jimmy. Thank you." He opened his desk drawer and fished out some change. "There's a vending machine upstairs—just a packet or two of antacids. I have some peppermint tea down here I'll start brewing, between the two, I should be right as rain."

Jimmy looked thrilled beyond words that he could be of assistance. "I'll be right back!" He was racing through the pneumatic door so quickly it almost didn't have time to get out of his way.

Ducky shook his head as he went about the automatic task of brewing tea. Dr. Stewart.

Oh, brother.

Dr. Stewart.

He had the sudden, horrible feeling that he was twenty-seven again, standing in front of that massive desk, this time waiting for all hell to break loose.

_I sent you to Napa to keep an eye on things, Mr. Mallard. And you **slept** with my **daughter**?_

Oh, God.

_You slept with my **sixteen-year-old ****daughter**?_

He rubbed his forehead.

_You slept with my sixteen-year-old daughter… and got her **pregnant**? _

That last one almost shattered glass.

His only hope was that in addition to being blind as a bat Dr. Stewart was now so senile that his mother would look like a graduate of the late night _Mister __Memory!_ infomercial course.

Fat chance.

Suddenly he remembered Edward Langley and his reaction to a classmate discovering that condoms weren't failure-proof and he and his girlfriend were now part of the error percentage. "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time." (Eddie, of course, had hit perfect odds that would have made bookmakers green with envy.)

_Don't do the crime if you can't do the time._

It wasn't the equation Eddie meant, but… He'd done the crime; now he had to do the time. Only _one_ week… but it was going to be a long seven days. (And it was _not_ going to be in solitary confinement.)

On the plus side… Tori was Dr. Stewart's only grandchild, and from her comments he had doted on her—particularly after Julia died.

No… adoring her wouldn't stop him from having her father drawn and quartered. After torture. Ducky shook his head as he poured the boiling water over the tea leaves. Lots and _lots_ of torture.

He sat in front of his computer, staring at it reflectively. Edward Langley. God, he hadn't thought of him in—well, forty years. He had planned to come back to the states, follow Amanda back to Michigan and marry her. Hmm; as his wounded heart had pointed out a while ago, nowadays you could find just about _anyone_…

A very few minutes of searching online gave him his answer. "My… God."

_**LANGLEY ONCOLOGY CLINIC**_

Dedicated to the early diagnosis and treatment of pediatric oncology, LOC is located…

_Founded in 1976 by Drs. Edward and Amanda Langley… :click for bio:_

When Jimmy returned, he found Ducky still sitting in front of his desk, chuckling to himself. "Are you feeling better, Dr. Mallard?"

"I'm starting to, Jimmy. Thank you." He took the packets with a smile.

…four children, and over the next twenty-five years adopted another twelve, all with severe medical conditions, most with cancer…

Sixteen children.

Eddie Langley had ended up with _sixteen __children_… and had founded a clinic to treat children suffering from cancer.

Ducky lifted his mug in a toast to the computer screen. "Knew you had it in you. Good lad."

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Jimmy."

/ / /

"Our positions really should be reversed… but I am loathe to give this up."

He heard Elizabeth laugh softly. "Why is that?"

"Because you're the one who's going to be arising in the middle of the night to start cooking—and I've been forbidden to join you—"

"I love you to death, but you'll just be underfoot."

"Yet, despite your schedule, _I__'__m_ the one getting the massage."

"Ah." She had divided his body into quadrants, starting in one section then working her way to the end of the extremity for that area, 'making all the muscle tension and bad juju go out your toes and fingers' she had explained when she started. First the front side (which had given birth to some delightful fantasies as she sat astride his torso, working her magic on his naked body; he'd have to remember them for another night), then the back. "Well… this way you'll be all nice and relaxed for tomorrow. I need you to be ringmaster for the circus. And tomorrow night, if you want to reciprocate, I certainly won't object."

"Glagly," he mumbled. "I mean, gladly."

"And…" She leaned over from her straddling position on his back. "I love to get my hands on your body every chance I get," she whispered into his ear.

He laughed as she went back to massaging his arm, working her way down to his hand. "God, you make me feel like a kid again when you say things like that."

"Don't get _too_ young, there, Dr. Mallard. There are limits, you know. Besides…" She gently grasped his thumb and slowly pulled her fingers down the digit. "Like the commercial used to say, 'you're not getting older, you're getting better.'"

"Huh." He frowned faintly. "What commercial was that _for_, do you remember?"

She had repeated the move on his first two fingers and now stopped at his ring finger. "What was…" She thought for a moment. "Boy, this would piss off their ad department… but I can't remember!" She finished with his hand and swung off of him. "Okay roll over again."

"Mmh." He grinned. "Now what are you planning on doing?" he asked suggestively, following her instruction.

She chuckled. "Not that. Not enough time."

"Yes… I much prefer when we can take all night." He reached up and stroked her cheek. "Though we did have a couple of rather spectacular, ah, 'quickies' back in the day."

"Ohhhh, _yeah_," she grinned in agreement. She shook her head slowly. "I saw stars," she confided.

"Really?" He looked at her delightedly. "You never told me that."

"Well, hell, Donald, back then I thought sex was like that for everyone!" She moved to kneel by the bed, in line with his head. "Close your eyes."

He did so. "Good things always happen when you tell me to close my eyes."

"No exception, I hope."

She started by rubbing his shoulders, kneading deeply. "You look like such a delicate little thing but you've got fingers that would break steel," he said in an admiring tone.

"Ha. You knead dough and pull taffy and roll cookies for all those years and try to not get muscles. It's amazing what holding a cone of frosting for six hours straight can do to your grip."

Having taken a number of baking classes in the past, just for fun, he knew precisely what she meant. A two-hour class was often more draining than eight or ten at work. "Do—"

"Shh," she whispered. She stroked his jaw, his cheeks, then very gently rubbed the point of his jaw hinge, fingertips moving in a small circle. His mouth fell open slightly in response. "Just… relax. No worries. No stress." Her hands moved back, lightly massaging his scalp. "Nothing but love… and peace… exist here." She rubbed his temples, slow circles as she had moments before.

He knew what she was doing… and he loved her for it. He had reluctantly confessed that he was more than a little nervous about facing her father after all these years. "Better now than forty years ago," she had replied. "But it's water under the bridge, everything will be fine."

Fine. In a pig's eye, fine. His own 'dad gene' had kicked in with full force over the past weeks. If he were in the position of sitting down to a meal and having Tori say, 'Oh, Dad, this is my boyfriend from high school, by the way I got pregnant back then—pass the salt, please?' he'd pass the salt, all right—bounced off the ex-boyfriend's skull. Then he'd take him outside for a little 'talk'… and beg Abby to help him hide the evidence. (She would, too.)

He didn't want to contemplate how he'd react if it were Rowena or Bronwyn in that situation.

No, while he understood how things could look 'fine' from her point of view, he was sure it was a conversation more along the lines of, 'Donald Mallard? Oh, sweetheart, that's wonderful, it will be great seeing him again—' and when the phone was hung up: 'I'm a half-blind old man, they'll never send me to jail, and if there's even one father on that jury—acquittal, all the way.' Oh, yeah, things were going to be fine.

But he had to admit, her hour-long head to toe massage was like good pre-op drugs before risky surgery. You were still not sure if you'd come out alive at the other end, but, hey, you didn't seem to care much anymore.

"Okay, handsome, put on your clothes."

He grinned. "I'd rather keep them off…"

"The dining room chairs are less than comfortable if you're buck naked. And our punctual-to-a-fault granddaughter will be serving dinner any moment."

"Ah." He swung around and slid his legs off the bed.

"You've still got nice legs."

He cocked his head. "I do?"

"Oh, yeah. You told me about being a runner in school, and the first time I saw you with your pants off—in your bathing trunks!" she added when he threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, you! Well, let me tell you, you went struttin' by and I was thinking, 'damn… that's what they mean by 'sculpted.'' You were gorgeous."

He looked at her woefully. "Were? Not now?"

She took his face in her hands. "Still gorgeous." She leaned over and kissed him deeply. "Different kind of gorgeous." She sighed. "I wish you'd reconsider wearing a kilt when we get married…"

"I don't think I have the knees for it any more. I don't want to emulate Prince Charles, thank you." He sobered. "Are you sure we aren't sending the wrong message?"

She looked startled. "How so?"

"Instead of sleeping in a spare bedroom, I've been staying here with you in your room these past nights. I'm just worried that we might be sending the wrong message to Rowena—or anyone else." He shook his head at her patient look. "I'm sorry. I'm new to this parenting and grandparenting thing."

"It's okay." She reached out and brushed the hair from his forehead. "Several things to consider. One. Rowena is sixteen—not six. Two. If all were right with the world, we'd be celebrating a fortieth anniversary somewhere soon. As a matter of fact, when we finally get the knot tied, Ro told me she plans to put a 'plus forty' on the top of the cake. Three. We are in a committed relationship and will be married soon—" she waggled her left hand, the overhead light bouncing off the diamond on her ring finger. "The two of us aren't slutting around, bringing home the boy or girlfriend of the month."

"Ouch."

"And, four, frankly, there are times you say, 'I am an adult, and there are things adults can and sometimes do that children do not.' Bringing up driver's licenses helps. Certain things are allowed for certain ages. You didn't get to drive at six; you do at sixteen. You don't get to bounce the mattress at sixteen—don't go there, Donald, don't go there!" she scolded at his raised eyebrow.

He laughed. "But you do at fifty-six?"

"Exactly. Now—get dressed!"

Knowing the next day would be a feast of frightening proportions (Ducky had counted at least four turkeys, two hams and two beef roasts that probably came from cows the size of his work van in the refrigerator), Rowena had prepared something easy and relatively light—spaghetti casserole and roasted vegetables. "We're gonna have a ton in the freezer," she shrugged philosophically. "I figured on four or five more people." The baking dish could comfortably serve a dozen—with seconds.

"I don't mind seeing this again in a week," Ducky said, dropping a kiss on her cheek in passing.

"Well, the last message I got from Ronnie, they still hadn't pulled into the station. That was hours ago, but all my calls and messages out drop off. Holiday overload already, I guess. They still have to pick up their rental, take their cr—stuff to the hotel… no sleepover with my big sister." She sighed. "Of course, Abby isn't here, either—I can't wait for the two of them to meet."

"They'll look like two peas in a pod," Ducky laughed.

"I like having Abby as an adopted older sister. And Ziva, too. She kicks ass. And she's doing pretty well on ice skates, too."

"How is that faring?" he asked, accepting the plate she had dished up.

"Not bad, not bad. Abby—man, you can't keep her off the ice, now. I know my whole Christmas vacation is going to be 'wanna go skating?' Fine by me. Ziva's starting to find it fun, now that she's got the hang of it. She's really coordinated, so that helps."

"She was rather torturing Agent DiNozzo this week, reminding him that it's expected of everyone to ice skate after dinner."

"It's not like it's a toll charge for eating," Elizabeth said, pouting. "I won't beat anyone who doesn't put on skates."

"We know that. She knows that. Tony doesn't know that," Rowena said, twirling spaghetti on her fork. "By the way—" She turned on Ducky with an exasperated look. "What gives with him?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Good heavens, what has Anthony done now?"

"Did you, like, appoint him my private guard or something? I was up in the cafeteria getting something to drink for Abby and myself, and there was this nice little dweeby guy talking to Agent McGee. He used to work with him in the cyber division, just ran over for a late lunch. We all chatted a bit, then I went over to the Caf-Pow machine… and when I turned to leave, there's Tony talking to this guy and he's turning paler and paler—he looks over at me and tears out of there like the place is on fire. Without his lunch!"

Ducky bit back a laugh. Young Anthony was apparently taking his threat to heart.

"I mean—come on. It's getting so I can't talk to anyone with a broken chromosome!"

"I'll—ah—I'll talk with Anthony."

"I don't know if you should! What did you tell him in the first place?"

"That… if he made a pass at you, I'd dismember him and feed him to my mother's dogs." At Elizabeth's delicate snort, he smiled. "Well… words to that effect."

"Glad I got you the cats," Rowena said with a dramatic sigh. She pulled her head up sharply. "Car in the driveway."

"Tori's working all night to finish off pies—" Elizabeth started. Rowena had already pushed back her chair and was bolting for the door.

"Get more plates!" she yelled over her shoulder. "_They__'__re_ _here!_" She opened the door just as the knocking started. "RONNIE!" Her scream could be heard back at the Navy Yard.

"ROSIE!"

"Don't call me that!" she laughed through her tears.

"I'm older and I will if I want!"

"Aunt Maddie!"

"Hey, baby girl!"

Ducky followed Elizabeth into the kitchen. "I'm guessing they bypassed the hotel and came straight here," she laughed.

"Sounds like." He gathered silverware from the drawer and set it on a stack of napkins. _Breathe __in, __breathe __out. __Breathe__i n__… __breathe __out. __Don__'__t __die __of __a __heart __attack, __you__'__ll __deny __him __the __pleasure __of __killing __you._

From the sounds of laughter and overlapping conversations, everyone was still clustered in the entry hall—except for Bronwyn. She slipped into the kitchen, a waif in head-to-toe jet black. Abby would definitely like her. "Oh, Grandma, let me get those! You shouldn't be carrying things, not so soon—"

Elizabeth looked at Ducky and jerked her head toward the girl. "Listen to this, will you? Worse than her mother." She set the plates down on the counter. "Get over here and hug me before I spank you."

From the squeak Bronwyn gave, Rowena had learned her hugging skills from her grandmother. "Oh, Grandma… I miss you so much," she said, her chin on Elizabeth's shoulder as Elizabeth swayed her back and forth.

"Not as much I miss you, monkey." She squeezed her again. "Come here. There's someone I want you to—"

"Yeah." She turned in Elizabeth's embrace and stared at Ducky, wide-eyed. "Yeah, I, ah… wow." She laughed nervously. "Man. I made up all these stories, Rosie and I did, all about you and Grandma…"

He smiled. "So I heard."

"I never thought I'd meet you."

"You still haven't," Elizabeth said with a smile. She pulled her over the few feet. "Ronnie…" She swallowed hard. "Oh, Ronnie, this is your grandfather. Donald Mallard." She laughed. "A lot of people call him Ducky."

He held out his hands and she flew to him, arms wrapped around him and head on his shoulder. "Oh… you found her, you found her, you _finally_ found her!"

"I finally found _all_ of you." Granted, he hadn't been searching—but it was the discovery, not the hunt that was important. "I am so glad…"

"Rosie told me everything about you, I've been so jealous, I couldn't wait to get here—"

He moved slightly so that her head was on his chest, tucked under his cheek. "And we couldn't wait for you to be here." He patted her back gently.

She sniffled. "Oh, I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize, dear." He blinked. His eyes were getting wet, too. "Finding out, after all this time, that I was a father… and a grandfather? I thought it couldn't get any better." He reached up and stroked her hair. "Well… right now proves I was wrong. It does get even better."

The cacophony in the hallway was getting louder, and in seconds spilled into the kitchen. "Oh! Oh! Group hug!" Rowena cried. She ran forward and grabbed Elizabeth's hand and sandwiched the four of them together. "Nana and Papa group hug. This is the greatest!"

Ducky had to agree. He snuck a look toward the doorway. Madalena, hugging herself and grinning (looking just like her picture on Elizabeth's desk); Dennys, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, nodding and smiling (and back to sporting the beard and moustache he had worn when Ducky had seen him last); Sassy (still looking cute and perky, but now with age-defying bright red hair instead of blonde)—and, his arm around his second wife's waist, Dr. Stewart.

He was smiling.

/ / /

"Excellent meal, my dear."

Rowena gave Dr. Stewart a teasing curtsey. "Thank you, good sir." She placed his coffee on the low table in front of him. "Cream and six sugars?"

"Daddy!" Elizabeth protested.

"I'm ninety-two. I'm not diabetic. I rather doubt it will kill me at this stage of the game," he said calmly. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"Cream, _two_ sugars…" She set the next cup in front of Elizabeth. "Earl Grey tea, milk, no sugar."

"Always the odd duck," Ducky laughed, taking the cup and saucer. "Thank you, dear."

"You're welcome, Papa." She reached over and ruffled his hair.

"Don't do that," he grumbled, smoothing it back down.

"But you look so cute when your hair is fluffed up!"

"At my age… the word 'cute' should not be used in reference to me—unless you are referring to my tie."

"Your tie isn't cute. You are." She cocked her head. "Now, tomorrow's tie…"

He laughed. "Where did you find that?"

"Abby and I went shopping—" she started with a grin.

"Enough said."

"Ronnie and I are going upstairs. The cell lines are still overloaded, but we're going to see if we can hook up with Abby on a webcam."

"We know where to get refills," her grandmother laughed. "Thank you, Ro."

"Tie?" Dennys asked.

"Rowena found a tie for me for Thanksgiving. It has little figures of farmers… running away from hatchet-wielding turkeys."

Madalena laughed. "Glad I wasn't drinking anything. That sounds funny as hell."

"It is rather amusing," he admitted.

"Rowena certainly comes by her kitchen skills honestly," Dr. Stewart said. The lenses in his glasses distorted his eyes, making them look like tiny buttons.

"Tori is one heck of a cook," Elizabeth agreed.

"No, I meant you, my dear."

_Well, __that __puts __it __right __out __there __in __the __open_. Ducky took a cautious sip of his tea.

"Why, thank you, Daddy," she said with a smile. "I take it Sassy has made good use of my wedding gift all these years?" At Ducky's questioning look she explained, "I wrote out all of the recipes I remembered as Daddy's favorites and made a little cookbook for Sassy."

"Little!" Sassy laughed. "There's, what, _three_ hundred _rec_ipes in there?"

"Don't exaggerate," Elizabeth said, wagging a finger.

"Okay, okay. Two-ninety-nine."

Shrieks of laughter floated downstairs, abruptly cut off by the shutting of a door. "I'm guessing they connected with Abigail."

"I think you're right. God, when the three of them get together tomorrow…"

"Katy bar the door?" Dennys finished.

"At the very least."

"Do you ever hear from Eddie? Eddie, oh, what was it, Eddie _Lang_ley, that's right, _Lang_ley?" Sassy waved a hand. "I re_mem_ber, he was so sweet on that _med_ student he was paired with, what was her name, _Mag_gie, _Miss_y—Mandy! A_man_da. She told me they were going to get _mar_ried after he came back from _Eng_land, did you ever hear if they did? I know she went back to Minne_so_ta or _Maine_ or—"

"Michigan," Ducky interjected.

"Right, right, she knew all the dirty _se_crets about the car manufacturers, oh, my, I'd _love_ to hear what she'd say about everything this last year, no more _Pon_tiacs? That's just _crim_inal! Good heavens, _never_ thought I see the day, do you keep in touch with Eddie?"

Different hair dye, same Sassy. "No—but I did come across his name on the Internet. He and Amanda _did_ marry—and they started a clinic in Michigan. For the care and treatment of children suffering from cancer."

A very slow smile spread across Dr. Stewart's face. "No."

"Yes."

"My, my. Amanda certainly turned him around."

"She finished what you started, sir."

Dr. Stewart shook his head. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Drop the sir. Using ratios, we're far closer in age than we were forty years ago… and you're finally going to be my son-in-law. Andy."

"Yes, sir," he said without thinking.

Dr. Stewart turned in his daughter's direction. "The boy doesn't seem to listen. Are you sure you want to marry him?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Oh, yes, Daddy." She reached over and squeezed Ducky's hand, the ring on her finger glittering. "More than ever."

His teasing glare softened. "Glad you have the chance." His faltering gaze moved back to Ducky. "Let's take a short walk, you and I, eh?"

Despite the pleasant conversation of the past hours, Ducky couldn't help but think, _oh, __boy, __here __it __comes_. "Certainly, sir," he said politely. He smiled. "I mean, Andy."

Dr. Stewart waved a hand toward the others. "Rest of you… oh, play Scrabble or something."

As they walked toward the front door, overly-bright chatter erupted behind them. "Scrabble! I haven't played Scrabble in years!" Maddie chirped.

"Biz can probably still clean your clock, though—right?"

"I never could get into _Scrab_ble, I liked Mo_no_poly—"

"If we play Monopoly, we'll still be playing when I have to start the turkeys!"

When the door shut behind them, Dr. Stewart held up a hand. "Let's just stay here on the porch. It's warmer—and I can't see worth shit at night."

"I understand completely."

Dr. Stewart stared at him, nodding reflectively. He walked more slowly… talked more slowly. Hell, he was ninety-plus; give him credit for walking and talking, period. And while his vision was extremely poor, Ducky was sure that at that moment he could see perfectly. "Donald Mallard."

Ducky swallowed and tried not to look terrified. The last time he remembered feeling like this it involved his nanny, a decimated box of Belgian chocolates… and a wooden paddle.

"I never thought I would lay eyes on you again."

Ducky forced a smile. "That seems to be a recurring theme."

"Mmh." Dr. Stewart sighed. "God… when you disappeared off the face of the earth, Lizzie—Lizzie was heartbroken. Julia told her to forget about you… but I knew you were in love with her, as much as she was with you. I thought there had been some misunderstanding—so… I called Edinburgh. From the office. Behind Julia's back. No luck. Called every Mallard in Edinburgh—wasn't hard, there was one, I think. Not you. Not your family."

_That__'__s __because __Mother __and __I __lived __in __London._ He wanted to laugh at the wicked twist of fate. _If __you__'__d __looked __up __Kittridges, __on __the __other __hand__… _Grandmother Kittridge would have moved heaven and earth to get them back together.

"And then—well…"

Ducky gritted his teeth. _I__'__m __sorry, __I __honestly __meant __no __disrespect __when __I __slept __with __your __daughter._

"Patricia…" He shook his head. "Dear God, I wish she could be here today. She was my voice of sanity. She said there was no way in hell that you would have walked away from Elizabeth. Never. And that if you knew she was going to have a baby, no way in hell would you _stay_ away." He sighed. "She… never said it in front of Elizabeth, but she told me… she was afraid that your posting to Viet Nam came through more quickly than planned, that you… died over there. Because only death would have kept you apart."

"I—"

"I know." He reached out and grasped Ducky's arm in a frighteningly powerful grip. "It… was the only thing that made sense. Julia—what she did—it would have never occurred to any of us… God, Donald, I am so sorry."

For a moment he felt lightheaded. "Sir?"

"When I found out what Julia had done—dear Lord. I was so furious, I couldn't even speak. Literally. Because I knew if I said one word, _one_ _word_—I would have yelled and screamed and torn the hotel down. It was bad enough when all she was doing—_all!_—was twisting your romance apart. But once she heard that Elizabeth was expecting, to keep up the pretense, to pull you apart farther, to pretend that it was all in looking out for Lizzie—" The slow breath he let out shook with rage. "I think… when she finally admitted to me what she had done… if I had touched her at that moment… I might have killed her. She hated me, she hated our marriage—and she took it out on Elizabeth." He stared at Ducky. "On Victoria. And Dennys and Patricia…" He shook his head. "In my defense… I can only say that it took years for her to get to that point. And I was a foolish, blind man." He laughed shortly. "Blinder than I am now."

In the silence, Ducky could hear faint laughter from inside.

"I, ah, did try to find you."

"Yes, you said—"

He shook his head. "No. After we visited. After… Julia told Elizabeth what she had done. I talked to Lizzie, told her she should try to find you. In the back of my mind I kept hearing Patricia—only death would have kept you apart. I thought… I thought she deserved to know. But she said no—that after all this time you had probably married, had a family—and she didn't want to break up your life, didn't want to hurt you." He nodded slowly. "So… I looked around. And didn't tell her."

Ducky struggled for breath. "You… you found me?"

"God, no! If I had—I'd've called you, let the chips fall. No, no… I did manage to get someone in the registrar's office who let me know that you had a new address in the United States." He laughed shortly. "In California. California! But… your last letter from the University had been returned, marked, 'forwarding order expired.'"

"Probably a fundraising letter."

Dr. Stewart snorted. "Probably. But she gave me that address. Little rental house in Hermosa Beach."

Ducky smiled. "I remembered Elizabeth's stories of riding her bicycle to the breakwater, I just…" he trailed off.

"I think I understand." He rubbed his arms.

"Would you like to go back in, sir? We could talk in the kitchen, or the library—"

"I'm fine. You live in California too long, you forget what winter means." He waved him off. "Good for the constitution." He stared at the porch for a moment. "What… Oh. Right." He nodded. "The tenants didn't know you, didn't know your name—so they sent me to the rental agency. Amazingly enough, I found someone sympathetic to my cause. She looked up the lease—they kept all the paperwork for ten years. And there is was." He shook his head slowly. "Forward mail to General Delivery, San Diego. Dated 1984. Only one… year… before. I'd already talked to the post office, I knew beyond three months it was history. Still… I tried. I called information, asking for Donald Mallards, hell, anybody Mallard… no luck. The most I could tell Elizabeth was you were alive and you had been in San Diego a couple of years before. So… I kept it to myself."

"Thank you," Ducky said quietly. He let out a deep sigh. "For looking."

"Every so often Julia would push the right button, use the right word… and, dear God, I could have torn you limb from limb."

_Oh, dear. Thought you dodged the bullet, hunh? Wrong._

"I'm her father, for God's sake. _You__'__re_ a father. Imagine your little girl saying, 'Daddy, I'm pregnant.' Not what you want to hear."

Ducky managed a tiny noise of agreement.

"And once again… Patricia was the little voice in my ear. 'Oh, please, Dad, how many girls are qualified to wear white wedding dresses, hunh? You're a doctor—get real.'"

Ducky almost laughed; he could picture Tish lecturing her father, hip canted out and elbow stuck out at an angle, look of exasperation on her face. His laugh came out a little strangled.

"Then she let loose with the big guns. 'I know Mom should have been wearing, what, _off_-white?' Apparently Julia had let… things… slip at some point. And it's true. We didn't wait, many of our friends didn't, even back then… and, hell this was the end of the sixties. Hearing some of the stories I did… I guess I should have been glad she waited to sixteen."

Ducky winced.

"And that was part of Patricia's defense. She brought up a young woman she had gone to school with who… well… had a bit of a reputation. Even though they were—God forbid—over thirty, her parents had been taken in by the hippie movement full force. Anything their daughter did was oooo-kay by them. And I do mean _anything_. Patricia said, 'Let's see. Lizzie didn't do anything—_anything_—with any other boyfriends. She gets engaged to one guy, a nice, decent guy, and she even tries to _not_ get pregnant, but it happens. Now which is worse—being the good time that was had by all, or—?'" He shook his head. "Tish certainly had a way with words."

Ducky risked a smile. "Yes. She did."

"I may not be able to see your eyes, Donald… but I can tell that you're sorry for what happened. And, yes—there was a time I would have beaten an apology out of you. But… there's a part of me that remembers being young. And in love. And the stupid things you do. And over the years the logical part of my mind has pushed the outraged father aside. Plus—" He grinned. "For almost forty years, I've been grandfather to the most extraordinary young woman."

Ducky couldn't help but grin in return. "She is rather all kinds of wonderful, isn't she?"

"And great-grandchildren! Good heavens. I must say, even though it was tragic how it came to be… I do so love having Bronwyn out in California. At least I have one grandchild underfoot to spoil."

Ducky nodded. "I understand. My mother will finally be meeting all of the children tomorrow." He shook his head. "I hope it goes well…"

"Yes, Elizabeth said your mother has some… cognition problems."

"She has good days. And bad days. When she went into Cambridge Care she actually improved. But lately…"

He was surprised when an arm was draped over his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Donald. Truly I am." Dr. Stewart shook his head. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone in the world. And it's so hard on those left outside."

"Elizabeth and I used to laugh over the idea of you and my mother going head to head in a Scrabble game."

"Oh, that would have been one for the ages."

"I'm sure she'd be willing to play except she has rather creative spelling now—and tends to invent words."

Dr. Stewart shrugged. "Between her spelling and my eyesight, I guess we're even." He shivered slightly. "Come on, son, let's go back in." He stopped and looked at Ducky. "You two set a date yet?"

"She, ah, says she can't comprehend even thinking about a date until after the New Year." _Fingers __crossed? __Fingers __crossed. __Solid __legal __defense._

"It better not take her another forty years," Dr. Stewart grumbled. "I'm getting _old_."

* * *

><p>24<p> 


	25. Vamp 'Til Cue Reprise

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Vamp 'Til Cue (Reprise)**

_**Vamp**** '****til ****cue:** A jazz, fusion,  
><em>_and musical theater term which  
><em>_instructs rhythm section members  
><em>_to repeat and vary a short passage,  
><em>_riff, or "groove" until the band leader  
><em>_or conductor instructs them  
><em>_to move onto the next section.  
><em>_**Reprise:** To repeat a previous part  
><em>_of a composition generally after  
><em>_other music has been played._

* * *

><p><strong>November 26, 2009<strong>

Something smelled _wonderful_. Heavenly, even.

It was impossible to sleep with the delicious scents tickling his nose. Ducky peered at the alarm clock: 5:39 a.m. Elizabeth had slipped from the bed at two, telling him to sleep in as long as he wanted.

He nuzzled her pillow, inhaling her scent. _What __I __really __want __is __you __back __in __this __bed._ But the chances of that happening were zero. She wouldn't allow him to work in the kitchen until it was time to do his own cooking, somewhere around noon—but maybe there were tasks he could accomplish in the rest of the house. He dressed quickly and followed the smells to the kitchen.

Rowena and Bronwyn were tucked out of the way at the breakfast nook, shoveling down eggs and toast between giggles and chatter.

"Eggs in the warming skillet, toast on the other side, coffee and tea on the sideboard, I love you, stay out of my way," Elizabeth rattled off, moving smoothly from refrigerator to stovetop to counter.

"Mornin', Duck."

Ducky almost jumped in surprise. "Jethro, what—"

"He sent me a text message at four-thirty that said, 'two a.m.?' I called him back and said, 'yeah, been up since then, too busy to type.' He said, 'What can I do to help?'—I figured what the hell, he volunteered twice, so—"

"Tables and chairs are all up in the backyard. Rearranged the playroom and the music room. Just gotta do the living room and dining room—after I start more coffee."

Elizabeth actually stopped for a moment. "Good God. I only drank, maybe one cup…?" She didn't sound angry. If anything, she sounded horrified.

"I had a cup," Bronwyn piped up.

"Me, too," added Ro.

"But that's still—" Elizabeth shuddered. "You don't have an ulcer, do you?"

"Me? Heck, no."

"Thank God."

He shrugged. "Hey. It's good coffee, ma'am."

"_Ma__'__am?_"

"Sorry." He flashed his best placating smile. "Elizabeth."

"Better. Coffee's there." She pointed to a cabinet and went back to work.

He grabbed the canister, rinsed and filled the pot with water and left the room.

Ducky shook his head. _Hmm. __Must __still __be __asleep. __What __a __queer __dream._ He touched the warmer and jerked his hand back. _No__—__you __don__'__t __get __burned __in __dreams._ "What can I do to help?"

"Eat some breakfast. Maybe Agent Gibbs needs a hand."

"I'm not interrogating you." Gibbs slipped back in and returned the coffee to the shelf. "You keep callin' me 'Agent Gibbs,' I'll keep callin' you 'ma'am.'"

Bronwyn giggled. "Floor show," she whispered to her sister.

Elizabeth glanced over. "I've heard Abby and Rowena both refer to you as 'Gibbs.' No 'Agent,' just the surname. Is that acceptable?"

"Perfectly."

She smiled. "It's just that you don't look like a Jethro," she sighed.

He gave her a puzzled look. "Can't argue. But what do I look like?"

She laughed. "I hadn't thought about it!"

He chuckled. "Let me know when you do. And, Duck? I won't turn down a second set of hands." When Ducky moved to set his plate aside, he held up a hand. "Eat first. I'm still waiting for the next pot to brew."

He could see why the girls were attacking the food with such relish—Elizabeth had cooked up a huge container of soft scrambled eggs with bits of bacon and cheese throughout. It was flat-out delicious. Fingers of cinnamon-topped raisin toast were a perfect complement. He placed his empty plate in the sink. "As with everything you make, wonderful, my darling." There was a pair of soft giggles from the corner that he chose to ignore.

She accepted his quick kiss. "Thank you. Love you. Stay out of my way."

He laughed. "Yes, dear." He glanced at his granddaughters. "What do you two imps have planned?"

"Imps!" Rowena looked offended.

"Yeah, well, if the shoe fits—" her sister started.

"It's never on sale," Ro finished.

"We're on baby patrol," Bronwyn said.

"We get to crawl around the floor at toddler level to see how much stuff the little monsters will destroy—and then move it to safety. Mom was wrong in some of her ages for the kids."

"Plus there are some people she didn't plan on," Bronwyn said in defense of her mother.

"True. Either way, we've got 'em from two on up, I think."

A sudden thought stuck him. "What about the cat?"

"Vish will stay locked in Mom's room," Ro said. "She'd totally wig out."

Shaking his head, he left the kitchen, in time to see Gibbs replace the coffee carafe. He reached over and took a mug, pouring in milk from the thermal carafe. Next he added tea: orange pekoe—acceptable. "Shall we?"

Gibbs nodded silently. "She already had floor plans…"

"She printed them out last night before we went to bed."

"Mmh." They worked in silence, moving the furniture further back and creating paths through the room. The harder task was in the dining room, forcing the table apart to cram in the extra leaves. "Got any WD-40?"

"Sorry, no, Tori was looking for some the other day."

Gibbs shrugged. "I'll bring some when I come back. It'll make it easier to put it back to normal." Table extended, they carried the chairs into the backyard.

Gibbs had not been a slacker. The yard was covered in plastic tablecloth-covered tables—card tables, fold up banquet tables, anything that was a flat surface and could pass for a table. Dozens of folding chairs littered the area, and long tables against one fence were dotted with steam tray stands and gel fuel cans, waiting for the food. "And she thinks this is fun," Ducky laughed.

"Be glad she doesn't do it every weekend." Gibbs stared off, transfixed by the swing set. Ducky sighed; it probably reminded him of the years lost from the death of his wife and daughter. "Nice rock," he said abruptly.

"Pardon?"

Gibbs turned and smiled at him. "The ring. Didn't know you had such good taste in jewelry, Duck."

He smiled in return. "It was my great-grandmother's."

Gibbs nodded. After a long moment: "Nice lady, too."

"Agreed."

Another long silence. "Wish Jenny could see this." Ducky looked at him, startled. "She used to worry about you, that you were all alone. I think… she'd be real happy for you."

Ducky sipped his tea. "I think she would, too."

/ / /

"You look just like I pictured you from your voice on the phone!"

Ducky laughed, accepting the enthusiastic hug from Midori. He was pretty sure that was what she meant, anyway—her Brooklyn accent was heavier than lead. "Well, I have to be brutally honest. None of your pictures even comes close to doing you justice." She was drop dead gorgeous—even in the opinion of a man who thought there were no more beautiful women than the ones in his direct family line.

"Ooh!" She slipped her arm through his elbow and gave Drew a saucy look. "I like him."

"Hands off," he teased. "He's Grandma's. No way is she sharing."

"Darn right no way," Elizabeth said firmly, marching in with a set of bowls in hand. "Where's Ro?"

"She went to pick up Mother. She should be back fairly soon."

"She's picking up your mother? Why not you?"

He gave her a wry smile. "Mother thinks I drive too fast."

"Anything I can help with, Grandma?"

"I need someone to catch Vichette and stick her in your mother's room."

Midori waved a hand. "No prob. We get along. Take her food and water up, honey, I'll find her…" she turned away. "Somewhere," she mumbled.

The doorbell rang; definitely not Rowena and her charge. Ducky hurried to the front door and opened it.

"Hi!" Before him stood an extremely tall man with thinning sandy hair. He recognized him from Tori's Mutt-and-Jeff wedding picture. "You must be Dr. Mallard," he grinned.

"And you must be Sam."

"Sam, I am," he laughed. "This is Elena—"

She held out a hand. "Doctor." Sam still had a preference for small, delicate women. Of course, since he was easily 6'6", small was kind of a given.

"Elena." Ducky shook her hand and was introduced in turn to her brother and his wife and their children. "Please, please, come in. Let me take your wraps—"

"Spare bedroom next to Ro's?"

"Ah—yes."

"I'll do it." Sam grabbed the coats and jackets and loped off.

"Ah, yes. Well—tree decorating is going on in the music room, Ronnie is in charge of that—fair warning it's fenced off to keep the little ones away, so it necessitates climbing over a baby gate to get inside. We have snack items and crudités on the dining room table, for those who are already hungry, drinks in tubs in the backyard—"

"Oh!" Elena handed the keys to her brother. "The trunk." She turned back to Ducky. "Elizabeth said most people were bringing side dishes, so we brought chips and dips and salsa and guacamole, Dr. Mallard."

"Wonderful. And, please—call me Ducky." _I__'__m __going __to __say __that __about __a __hundred __times __today. __Perhaps __I __should __have __Ro __put __it __on __a __lapel __button._

"Ducky?" she laughed.

"Yes—Mallard, Donald, Donald Duck—Ducky. It was tagged on me in my youth—over the years, I've come to like it."

"Ducky… who is wearing turkeys." She peered at his tie.

"Ah, yes. A gift from one of my granddaughters, in the holiday spirit."

Drew came trotting down the stairs with his father. "Midi found Vish under Ro's bed. She's got her in Mom's room, doing her cat whisperer routine."

"Good. Drew, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Grandpa."

_Grandpa._ If it was taking time to get used to being called 'Dad,' it was still a real jolt to hear 'Grandpa' and its various deviations being applied to him. "Could you help Jorge bring in the food they brought and get it set up on the table? I have some work to do in the kitchen."

Drew's eyes widened. "You're crossing paths with Grandma… on Thanksgiving?"

"I'm on her schedule," he laughed ruefully. "I have a side dish to prepare, starting in two minutes. I'm afraid if I'm late, she'll sell my slot to someone else."

"Run," Drew suggested.

Ducky had cooked any number of meals with Elizabeth in the past weeks… but none like this. Six halved turkeys waited on the drainboard, resting and redistributing juices. He could smell beef from one oven and ham from the other, and all six burners on the stovetop were occupied. Elizabeth had four crock pots at one end of the counter (turning, he saw three more at the other end) and had brought in two large convection ovens that were sitting on the breakfast nook.

In the past he had questioned that she had such an enormous kitchen. Never again.

"Prep there, it's the safest." She pointed to a small open area. "Both of the vects are up for grabs for an hour."

"Perfect. Do you have time for a kiss?" he teased.

She finished dumping a huge skillet of sautéed mushrooms and onions into a stainless steel bowl that could easily be used by a two year old as a bathtub. "Of course!" She shoved the skillet back on the stove and slipped her arms around his waist. She kissed him, a deep, sensuous caress that made him wish it were twelve hours later. "That's what you get when I stay a minute or two ahead of schedule."

"What do I get when you're five minutes ahead?"

"Work fast, we'll find out."

Ducky whipped through the waiting squash in record time, layered it in the commercial pans she had left out and decorated it all with generous helpings of butter, brown sugar, walnuts and a bit of rum. "Sweetheart, I've never used a convection oven. Could you—"

"What do you normally set it to?"

"Three-fifty. Half hour. Mmh, this deep—forty-five."

"Drop it to three hundred, check it at thirty."

He slid the pans in and turned on the ovens. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Punch?" she asked hopefully. "Ro was going to do it, but I think she may have had a slower go of it with your mother than we planned."

"Gladly."

"Ice-and-fruit molds are in the freezer—" Her hands occupied, Elizabeth lifted a leg and pointed a foot toward the enormous chest freezer in the far corner. "Non-frozen ingredients are in the two milk crates in front of the freezer, recipe cards are taped to one of them."

Ducky grinned. "You look quite alluring when you do that."

She shook her head. "You have a dirty mind." She smiled slyly as she continued to work. "And I love you for it."

Ducky lugged the crates to the dining area, where Rowena had earlier set up two large punch bowls. In front of one was a card reading "Red Fruit Punch" with the warning "CONTAINS PINEAPPLE." Apparently someone had an allergy. The other card read "Lemonade Fizzy Punch." Made it simple for him. For the next fifteen minutes he poured cans and bottles, fetched fruit rings, sherbet and ice cubes, while in the distance Drew played the gracious host in his absence. The doorbell rang every few minutes it seemed; a number of not recently seen but not forgotten relatives arrived, along with people from work and school.

"I have heard a _lot_ about you!" he laughed when Abby arrived.

"And I've heard a lot about _you_," she countered. "Did you really blow the door off the oven when you were six?"

"Yeah, it had something to do with using a whole can of baking powder in the cake, I think."

Ducky rolled his eyes and carried the crates of empty bottles into the kitchen. "Recycle bins by the trash," Elizabeth said, before he could set them down.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Can't salute, sorry." He opened the back door and stepped onto the porch. _Good __God, __no __wonder __it__'__s __relatively __quiet __in __the __house._ Several dozen people wandered in the backyard, holding plates of pre-dinner nibbles and cans and bottles of soda and beer. There were numerous factions already represented—coworkers (NCIS), coworkers (Ealasaid's), relatives, friends of relatives, friends, relatives of friends, classmates and miscellaneous 'who knows who you are?' people. Utter strangers could wander in and nobody would know the difference. (They might already have done so.) But it looked like people were mingling instead of staying in their comfort groups. Good.

He returned to the house, shaking his head. "I didn't realize there were so many people here already. I was hoping Mother would be here early, sort of ease her into the crowd."

"Well… when you're a hundred and one, you don't rush for other people—other people rush for you," Elizabeth said in a firm tone. "And there are plenty of us to run interference for her. I'm sure she'll be fine."

"You haven't known her as long as I have," he muttered darkly.

"Yes, but you are not her granddaughter, great-granddaughter, or great-grandson. We have four people around here who are number one on her hit parade," she said cheerfully. "Coming through with boiling!" She pulled a large pot off the stove and Ducky vacated the kitchen.

Gibbs was just entering, a tall box in his hands. By his side, Faith Coleman had a bottle of wine in each grip and a grin on her face. "Ducky!" she called out.

"Faith, how lovely to see you." He accepted her cautious hug.

"Gibbs told me the good news. Congratulations!"

"Thank you, my dear."

"First time to the altar?"

"Ah, yes."

"Smart man. Be patient. Do it right."

He wasn't sure if the comment was a dig toward Gibbs or not. "Well, I trust we are. Oh, let me help you—" He took the bottles from her.

"Thanks. My hands were starting to cramp."

"Where should I put this, Duck?"

"What is 'this,' precisely?"

"Nuts."

"Pardon?"

"You know—nuts. You crack 'em, you eat 'em.'

"Ah. Nuts. Well—the dining room table, I expect. I'll find a nutcracker—"

Gibbs waved him off. "A couple in the box." They walked to the table, where Gibbs unboxed an attractive nut bowl brimming with nuts in their shells and a spinning top tier of nutcrackers and picks. "Remembered this was in a box in the back of the closet, thought it might look good."

"The nuts aren't from the back of the closet, are they?" Faith teased.

"Got a problem with that?" Fortunately Ducky knew Gibbs was joking. Ducky set the wine on the sideboard with the other eclectic collection of bottles (so far the adults could all have three or four large glasses each and still not make a dent in the supply).

"Donald?"

He jerked his head up at the sound of his mother's voice.

"No, Grandmamma—I'm Andrew, your grandson. Your great-grandson. This is the first time I've gotten to meet you."

"Donald?" There was just the faintest hint of panic to her voice. Oh, God, he'd known this wouldn't be a good idea…

"Grandmother—this is Drew." Rowena's voice was firm, but gentle. "He's my older brother. He lives in New York." She guided her to the large poster on the wall. "See? Here's his picture. There's you… Papa and Nana…"

"_That__'__s_ Donald!"

"That's right. And my mom—Victoria..."

"_She__'__s_ my granddaughter!" She looked almost smug. "Elizabeth named her after me."

"That's right. And there's Drew… and Ronnie… and me."

"You're—you're my _great_-granddaughter."

"You bet I am."

She turned on Drew. "Are you—my great-grandson?"

"Yes, I am, Grandmamma," he grinned.

She looked startled. "You're married!" she suddenly remembered.

"I sure am!" He motioned off to the side and Midori appeared from the music room. "Grandmamma… I'd like you to meet my wife. Midori."

"Oh… you are very pretty, dear."

"Thank you." Midori smiled. "I have been wanting to meet you for so long…"

Mrs. Mallard looked puzzled. "Why?"

That took her aback for a second. "Because… you're family. And family is very, very important."

She nodded. "Yes, it is." She looked around, concerned. "Donald? Donald—"

"Right here, Mother." He hurried up and gave her a light hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Donald… is he old enough to be married?" she whispered loudly.

"Ah—yes, Mother, he is."

"But—he's just a boy!"

"Drew is twenty, Mother."

She looked at him sharply. "That old? Good heavens." She looked around him. "Where is Rowena? She has my purse!"

"I'm right here, Grandmother." She came galloping in, dragging her sister in tow (who could barely keep up with her). "This—is Ronnie. Bronwyn. She's the last of us you need to meet."

Victoria reached out and patted Bronwyn's cheek. "Oh… my. You look just like your older sister."

"My… what?"

"Your older sister." She turned to Ducky. "You work with her."

"No, Mother. That's Abigail. She's a _friend_."

"Oh." She still looked puzzled. "You do look just like her."

"I know. It's okay if you mix us up, a lot of people have been today."

"Where is Victoria?"

"Mom is outside. Would you like me to get her?" Ro asked.

"No, no…" She smiled. "I've finally met my granddaughter. I've met… my great-grandson," she said slowly. She patted Drew on the chest. "My great-granddaughters." She included Midori in her smile. "I can die, now."

Ducky actually gasped in shock. "Mother!"

There was a clamor from the others. "Oh, Grandmamma—" "Don't even think—" "No!"

Midori burst into tears. "Don't you dare!" she cried.

"Oh, that's logical," Bronwyn muttered.

"I don't care if it's logical! Our baby's only going to have two great-great-grandparents, and _you_ live nearby so the two of you just have to be together!" Midori was sobbing now.

Everyone else was silent, even Mrs. Mallard. As one, his sisters and grandfather turned to stare at Drew while he tried (unsuccessfully) to comfort his wife. "Ah… surprise?" he said weakly.

"Drew?" Ronnie squeaked. "Oh, my God. Does Mom know?"

"Ah… uh-uh," he said negatively. He laughed nervously. "We were going to tell everyone tomorrow, after the crowd is gone."

"Donald—is she pregnant?"

"Yes, Mother," he said quietly.

"Well. It's a good thing they got married, then."

_I __need __a __drink._ "Yes."

Victoria hobbled forward and took one of Midori's hands. "When are you having your baby?"

"Muh—May," she stammered.

Victoria looked pleased as punch. "How lovely! Right before my birthday!" She slipped her hand through Midori's elbow and they walked slowly away, while the others looked after them in various stages of bewilderment and confusion.

"I… guess we don't have to worry about Grandmother throwing in the towel," Ronnie finally said.

"Another grandchild in the offing?" Ducky snorted. "Not a chance."

"Ah—just to let you guys know now… twins run in her mother's family. A lot." Drew left quickly, just this shade of rude. He plainly didn't want to continue the discussion.

Rowena and Bronwyn grabbed each other's hands. "We're gonna be aunts!" they squealed in unison.

"Let's get to Mom before Drew does!" Bronwyn suggested with an evil chuckle. They tore off in the opposite direction Drew had gone.

Shaking his head, Ducky turned toward the chiming doorbell and stopped in his step.

Oh, my God. I'm going to be a great-grandfather.

He blinked and shook his head.

_I'm… going to be a **great-grandfather**._

He stood there as the doorbell pealed again.

_I really need that drink._

/ / /

Ducky took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "If I get through this day with my sanity intact, I owe it all to my granddaughter," he sighed.

Ziva, standing on his left, nodded in agreement. "That was a stroke of genius."

Ducky looked at the "that" to which she referred and nodded. "You can't tell the players without a scorecard."

Madalena laughed. "I thought it was more like a playbill from a complex opera." Arranged in a branching grid like a crazed family tree were photos and bits of information about everyone who planned to attend, and plenty of blank spots for last minute additions. Rowena had a digital camera in her pocket and was running back and forth to the office printer on a regular basis.

"She interviewed all of us at work."

"You're joking." Ducky frowned. "Should I be insulted that she didn't interview me?"

"You are her grandfather. She sees you all the time." Ziva shook her head. "Tony got hold of McGee's card and entered his own answers." She smiled. "We corrected them. Abby then left a copy of Tony's card on his desk… with _her_ versions of his answers."

Ducky searched for DiNozzo's photo on the legend. _Anthony __DiNozzo. __I __work __with __Ducky, __Elizabeth__'__s __fiancé __and __Rowena, __Elizabeth__'__s __granddaughter. __I __am __interested __in __classic __TV __shows, __classic __cars, __movies __and __good __wine. __Call __me __Tony. _"Looks safe."

"Oh, we had no intention of posting it. That would have been rude to you and Elizabeth." Ziva's smile grew infinitesimally. "We just wanted to make him squirm a little."

Maddie laughed. "I like her." She reached around Ducky and stuck out a hand. "Hi. I'm Madalena Stewart. Lizzie's sister-in-law, soon to be his, too." She jerked her thumb at Ducky.

Ziva shook her hand. "Madalena. That is a pretty name. I am Ziva, Ziva David."

"You brought the mushroom couscous! I would kill for that recipe. And your friend brought that curry—"

Ziva flashed a look at Ducky and quirked an eyebrow. "Oh… I think this time killing is not necessary."

He left the two of them discussing recipes (which had a slightly surreal feeling to it as it was) and wandered through the house.

His mother was set up at a small table in the living room, still chatting animatedly with Dr. Stewart. Discovering that he was the "other" grandparent, she had claimed him for her own. Sassy had good-naturedly taken herself off to chat up utter strangers, something she did with ease, leaving her husband to the tender mercies of the other in-law-to-be. An awkward moment had occurred when Mrs. Mallard realized that nice Dr. Stewart, Tori's grandfather, and Andy, husband to That Evil Bitch, Julia, were one and the same. This discovery occurred just after Ducky went in search of foods to entice her waning appetite. Before Ducky could get back with her plate from the buffet, she had given Dr. Stewart quite an earful. (Small blessings—she hadn't hit him or spit at him.) For his part, Dr. Stewart let her venom roll off his back, letting her wind down on her own. When Ducky came back in and realized what was happening, he hurried over and heard Dr. Stewart state, "You're absolutely right, Mrs. Mallard. I wish I could do something to make up for the pain my late wife caused. All I can say is if I had known—I would have stopped it, immediately."

Victoria glared at him and nodded curtly. As if the clouds had parted, she suddenly beamed at him. "Do you play the bagpipes? When I was a girl, I played the bagpipes." It was like watching a television where it was controlled by your neighbor's garage door remote. You never knew when the channel would change or what the hell the program would be.

"No, but I still play the piano a bit," he said. He motioned for Bronwyn to come over. "Ronnie, would you save my seat? I don't want anyone else to steal my place next to Mrs. Mallard, but I'd like to get some of that wonderful food."

"Sure, grandpa." She slipped into his seat as Ducky placed the plate in front of his mother.

"Oh, hello, dear. You—you work with Donald, don't you?"

"No, Mother. That's Abigail." He pointed across the room, where Abby was engaged in an animated conversation with McGee and Tori's beau, a gentleman with the unfortunate appellation Cerulean Starshine. ("My parents were at Woodstock," he explained with a shrug. "Call me Blue." At least he had a normal surname of Francher. Professionally, he went by C.S. Francher and Ducky didn't blame him a bit.)

"I'm Ronnie. I'm Victoria's daughter. Your great-granddaughter. You don't get to see me much because I live in California."

Mrs. Mallard's face cleared. "You're a singer!"

"Yes, Grandmother, I am."

"I was a singer in a little tavern—"

Shaking his head, he went back for his own plate.

A couple of hours later, the food was pretty well stripped. Children who had been running around like speed freaks on rollerblades were now quietly playing games or crashed in corners, awaiting the serving of dessert and the sugar that would recharge their batteries. ("Sorry you didn't spike the punch?" Rowena had asked when they discovered Tom's twin boys (not five years old, as Tori had recalled, but a more dangerous eight) lobbing Hershey's Kisses into the open baby grand. "_**Yes!**_" Uncle Ducky stood over the little rats as they fished out every last piece of candy. Thank God the chocolate hadn't melted. (Thank God even more that they hadn't noticed the bowl of grape tomatoes and mozzarella balls.))

"Oh, come on. Rosie is Buddhist, Drew is kinda Ba'hai and I'm agnostic—and we still sing the songs. They're just pretty songs, the words have meaning only if you want them to have meaning. It's no more meaningful than reciting lines from a play, unless you _want_ it to have meaning." Bronwyn, still trying to coax Ziva into singing Christmas carols. Good luck with that.

"It's not special rights, it's equal rights!" Hoo-boy. The significant other of a friend of some far-flung relation was an ultra-conservative evangelical who made the nutty minister from Kansas seem tame in comparison. In a gathering where there were at least six gay couples (that he knew of), and everyone else seemed to have a, "That's nice, and?" attitude toward the couples, Significant Other was increasingly on the losing end of the battle. (And friend of the far-flung relation looked like she was going to bring the relationship to a close on the way home, if not before.)

"_D.O.A_. Classic of film noir." At least DiNozzo wasn't cowering in the corner trying to avoid Faith Coleman. He had discovered Sam's cousin Melanie was even more of a movie fan than he was—and he didn't seem to mind that she had two children. (Two of the better-behaved children, Ducky freely admitted.)

"Getting close, Dad." Tori had changed into a gown of palest sea foam green lace that went beautifully with her hair.

He blew out a deep sigh. "Yes, it is. Everything ready?"

"Boxes are in the garage. It's cold out there, and nobody will look. You going to go change?"

"In a moment. I need to find Jethro."

"He's talking to Mom in the kitchen. The kids are starting to edge people out here."

"Meet you back here in—" He checked his watch. "Twenty minutes. I need time to get Mother outside."

"Want me to have Ro do it? She can get Grandmother to do anything."

"True. Good idea."

In the kitchen he discovered Elizabeth was missing but Gibbs involved in an in-depth discussion with Uncle Sandy's partner, a woodworker from Boston. "Seriously. A Sheffield planer, about 1915, still in its original box—swear it had never been used. And because Sandy was buying this ugly oil painting—well, yeah, he turned around and sold it for double the next month, but it was still ugly as a bad breakup—but she threw it in. For nothing."

It meant nothing to Ducky, but Gibbs made an appreciative headshake. "Wow."

"And—I know they won't be of much use building a boat, but—she had the most beautiful set of woodcarving tools I've ever set eyes on. Two dozen. Marples. Mahogany handles." Gibbs whistled. "Mint condition! She only wanted—Dr. Mallard! I just wanted to tell you, your mother is the most delightful woman I've ever met."

"Yeah, she's a pip," Gibbs murmured with a grin, staring into his wineglass.

"Apparently I remind her of a vicar at St. Anselm's?"

"Ah—oh." He gave them a game smile. "I'm glad. Where is Elizabeth?"

Ray laughed. "Oh, as soon as we started talking woodworking, Sandy threw up his hands and left, dragging her with him."

Ducky nodded. "I hate to be rude, but I do need to speak to Jethro on a private matter."

"Say no more. I could use a refill." He waggled his empty beer bottle.

"Oh—Elizabeth would like everyone outside in about fifteen minutes."

Ray looked surprised. "She didn't say anything when she left. What's going on?"

"She delegated the task. And—I'm not sure."

Ray shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough," he said cheerfully. "Hope to catch you later."

Gibbs nodded. "I'll be here."

"Where is Faith?" Ducky asked as they walked from the room.

Gibbs laughed. "Debating Constitutional law with a third year from Georgetown. She's having fun." He frowned as Ducky led them to the stairs. "What's up, Duck?"

"I just need your assistance."

Gibbs remained silent until they were upstairs in Elizabeth's bedroom. "Well?"

"You know that I asked Elizabeth to marry me." He stripped off his sport coat and tossed it on the bed.

"Well, yeah—your granddaughter all but sent it out on a system-wide alert."

"I would like to ask you to be my best man." He slipped out of his shoes.

Gibbs was momentarily taken aback. "Ah, Ducky—I'm, uh… honored. And—flattered," he said slowly. "But… I've been divorced three times. Isn't that, well, breaking some sort of superstition to have me as your best man?"

"I think it's probably the opposite, that you'll bring us good luck." Gibbs looked skeptical. "And… you are my closest friend."

Gibbs nodded slowly, smiling faintly. "Dr. Mallard," he said formally, "it would be my honor." He reached out and clasped his hand. "Have you set a date?"

"Yes. We have."

"Great. When?"

Ducky glanced at the clock. "In seventeen minutes." He walked to the dresser and picked up a small ring box. "If you would take custody of this…" He handed to Gibbs.

When he announced the time frame, Gibbs had looked shocked. Then puzzled. Then downright baffled. "Wait—"

Ducky stopped and looked at him patiently. "Time is of the essence, Jethro."

"No kidding! Look, you—you can't get married this fast!"

Ducky began to chuckle. "You're not going to tell me I haven't known her long enough or some such, are you?"

"No, no—I just mean Rowena was running around like your personal tabloid rag on Monday—this is only Thursday!"

"And I came in late that morning." He smiled smugly. "Elizabeth and I stopped off and obtained a license from the county clerk's office. You see, I remembered a case from a few years ago, young woman who died from carbon monoxide poisoning, at first the evidence pointed toward murder—her husband was a Petty Officer, that's how we became involved. Later, it looked to be suicide. But we proved that it was accidental death, a tragic case of—" He broke off with an irritated shake of his head. "Fifteen minutes." He stripped off his holiday bowtie as he continued to speak, swapping it for a forest green necktie with a faint gold stripe. "The mother of that young lady," he said, peering at his reflection, "was very grateful for our vigilance. We proved her daughter did not kill herself and that the father of her only grandchild was innocent of murder. She told me, repeatedly, that if she could ever be of any assistance, to call." He straightened the knot and smoothed his collar. "She is the senior supervisor at the county clerk's office and was delighted to rush through our license request in three days instead of three weeks."

Gibbs shook his head and laughed. "Well… if you two kids have thought this through—"

Ducky shot him a look over his glasses that would have had Jimmy crawling into one of the freezers, McGee stopping in his tracks and backing away, DiNozzo giving himself a headslap, Abby breaking off mid-word of a caffeine-fueled 78 rpm monologue and even Ziva deciding to get a cup of alleged tea from the break room machine instead of walking through his door. But Gibbs only laughed harder.

"Can't say you're wasting time, stringin' her along…"

Ducky shook his head and fastened a tie tack to the center of his tie. "You have the ring?"

"Ring?"

He looked at him in exasperation. "I just handed you the blasted thing! Where could—" Gibbs smiled and held up the box. "Not amusing. Not amusing in the least."

"I thought it was funny." Gibbs waited until Ducky had slipped into black pants and matching jacket and put his dress shoes on. "Wedding—or funeral?"

Ducky raised an eyebrow. "It could be both," he said pleasantly. Take a hint.

"Ow." As they walked from the room, Gibbs stopped. "Wait a minute. Got a question." He looked uncommonly serious.

"What?" Ducky looked at him in concern.

"If the two of you… well… if you have a bunch more kids, am I automatically the godfather or something?"

Ducky rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Good God. Maybe I should have asked Jimmy."

There were a few stragglers but the house was essentially empty. Bronwyn shut the patio door behind them and streaked back. "Are you ready?" Until that morning, only Tori had been in on the plans. (One, they needed her help. Two, they didn't trust Rowena—or Bronwyn, despite the distance—to keep the secret. To keep things fair, Drew had been out of the loop as well.)

"I certainly hope so."

The dining table had been cleared of snacks and munchies, and Tori was setting a land speed record for assembling a multi-tier wedding cake. "Oh, Mom, that's gorgeous."

"Thanks, sweetie." She kept her eyes glued on the tier she was moving. "I know pillar dividers are out, but they're fast and easy in my book."

"It's beautiful," Ducky echoed.

"And for the traditionalists who came here for Thanksgiving and didn't expect a wedding—we _do_ have pumpkin pie and all that rot," Tori laughed. "Okay, Mom's changed, she's hiding upstairs in my room—I don't think anyone will really figure it out until they see her, but people are starting to get antsy. I told them we have a spectacular dessert planned and want it to be super secret. Grandpa and Grandmother were all for staying in the living room and promising not to peek. I thought Ro was going to have a stroke."

"How did she get them out?"

"Told them if they didn't go outside with everyone else, there wouldn't be any dessert. That got grandpa to move. Then she said, 'Wanna see the playset Nana built for my mom?' That got your mother going."

A touchstone to her granddaughter's childhood? Brilliant. He was almost embarrassed to admit that Rowena often handled his mother better than he did.

"So do we just hang around here and twiddle our thumbs?" Gibbs asked mildly.

"How about going outside and if anyone makes a move toward a door, tackle them?"

He grinned. "You've got it." He ducked into the kitchen.

"You should probably tell him that's not literal."

Tori shot him a look. "Who says it's not?" She stopped her fussing with the cake. "Come here."

He stood still as she pinned a white rose and baby's breath boutonnière on his lapel. "Going all out on this, eh?"

"We still—damn." She made a face and repositioned the flowers. "Have yet… to do a big wing-ding wedding in this family. But I'll take what I can get." She fluffed the baby's breath.

"Ah, yes… congratulations, _Grandma_."

"No. Uh-uh, not happening."

"Too late."

"I am not a 'grandma.' They're going to have to come up with some other name."

"Like what?" he laughed. "_Aunt_ Grandma?"

She moaned faintly and waved him away. "Knock it off or the last tiers will end up on the floor. Go." She glanced at the clock. "I'll get Mom down here in a minute."

"I can go upstairs and tell her the coast is clear."

"You're not supposed to see your bride before the wedding!"

Shaking his head and laughing, he went out the same path Gibbs had taken.

The natives were getting a little restless. As he threaded his way through the crowd, he could hear Drew, Midori, Ro and Ronnie doing their best to sell the idea that some spectacular dessert was being assembled, and Tori and Elizabeth wanted everyone to come in at the same time for the ooh-aah value. (They weren't far off, really.) It was a hard sell.

"Donald!" His mother grabbed at his arm. "Elizabeth built that… all on her own!"

"It _was_ a kit," Dr. Stewart murmured to Ducky.

"It's still impressive. I wouldn't have tackled it alone," he said.

"Mrs. Mallard?" Gibbs came up on the other side. "Would you like to sit down for a while? Maybe I could get you a glass of wine?"

"Matthew! What a lovely surprise!" (She'd seen him at least a dozen times that day.) "Why yes… it would be nice to sit for a while. Do you have whiskey?"

Behind her, Ducky shook his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am, there isn't any."

She spied a bottle in someone's hand as he walked by. "Oh! Guinness!"

Ducky rolled his eyes and shrugged. Better than whiskey.

"I'd be delighted to find you a Guinness, ma'am. Why don't we…" His voice trailed off as he led her to the center area where the ceremony was due to take place.

"Donald?"

"Yes, sir?" _Dammit!_ "Andy?"

"I've learned quite a bit, talking with your mother."

"I've no doubt," he murmured. _Much __of __it __rather __trivial __and __useless._

"Because Lizzie is my own, my child, I saw her hurt and it never occurred to me that anyone else could be hurting as well. From what your mother has told me… you grieved as though she had died in your arms." He pressed his lips together. "For years."

He looked at him sharply. It was true—but he thought that after the initial shock he had hidden it from others.

"I am so sorry."

He reached out and grasped the older man's arm. "It's finally being put right—Andy." He smiled. "Tori ventured that this is Julia's work, making things right from beyond." Dr. Stewart snorted faintly. "Personally… I see Tish's hand in this."

Dr. Stewart closed his eyes and patted Ducky's hand. "I wish she could be here." He swallowed hard, his eyes squeezed shut. Still Ducky could see the glint of tears. Thirty-five years didn't dull the loss of a child. "She and Elizabeth—" He broke off, shaking his head.

"She's here," he said softly. "Patricia is _always_ here."

Dr. Stewart took a steadying breath. "Yes." He patted Ducky's hand again. "Well, then… when does this wedding start?" he asked quietly. Ducky looked at him in shock and he laughed roundly. "Oh, Donald!" He lowered his voice. "I may be old—and I may be half blind—but I am not stupid, and I am not deaf."

"Andy, there you are!"

"And I know it's a secret," he whispered. "Here I am, dear."

Sassy slipped an arm around her husband's waist. "Oh, Ducky, look at you! You look so _sharp_! You weren't wearing that _ear_lier, were you?"

"No, I wasn't," he said pleasantly, deliberately not explaining further. "If you'll excuse me…" From across the yard he saw Gibbs giving him the high eyebrows.

"So… who's makin' the announcement? Everyone's grumbling for pumpkin pie," Gibbs said _sotto __voce_.

Ducky had a moment of panic. "Dear God—I don't know."

"Just thought it would sort of take care of itself, hunh?"

Drew slipped up. "Mom's on her way to get things started. Grandma's waiting in the kitchen for everyone to look at Mom so she can sneak out the door." He cocked his head. "You sure you want to do this?"

"Too late, now. I'm starting to wish we'd done what you and Midi did."

"And keep us out of the loop?" Gibbs grinned at him. "Oh, hell, no."

Ducky could see Tori threading her way through the crowd. She blew out a long breath. "Okay. Mom's ready. You're ready. J. P. is ready."

Gibbs looked at Ducky. "How—"

"The woman who helped us with the license? She knows all of the justices of the peace in the area, and knew that Ms. Appleton wasn't able to get home for the holidays. She was delighted to be included in the party."

Gibbs shook his head. "Next time I need a miracle pulled off…"

Ducky snorted. "Next time you get married…"

"No." Gibbs shook his head. "_**No**_."

They followed Tori to the end of the yard near the play area. "Hello? Everyone?" Nobody beyond four feet noticed her calling out. "Everybody?" She tried raising her voice; a few more people looked up.

"Would you like me to…?"

"The way you corral the team?" Ducky made a face and shook his head. "Perhaps if you were _above_ the madding crowd, my dear…"

"Oh!" She gave a small yelp and laughed as Gibbs grabbed her about the waist and easily swung her atop the redwood picnic table that had earlier held buckets of drinks. "Hello? Everyone? Can I have your attention, please?" Slowly the crowd quieted. "Hi. Great. I need everyone to help me out just a little. Drew is going to walk down the middle of the crowd, I need everyone on that side of the yard to move two feet that way, everyone on this side, two feet this way. I need about a four foot wide break down the middle, okay? If you're sitting in a chair, that's fine, you don't have to move it." Drew held his arms straight up and walked slowly to the back of the crowd then turned around and walked back, checking for stragglers. "Perfect!" Tori's voice carried in the silence. Drew slipped off to the side and trotted toward the music room. "Now—you were all invited to our Thanksgiving get-together and we are all _so_ glad you came. It's the first time the family has been together in ages, and we have old and new friends to celebrate with us. Thank you."

An unexpected wave of applause stopped her speech. Ducky looked over the crowd that was focused on Tori and tried not to smile. There she was, at the top of the back steps, just high enough that he could see her. Years ago he had thought she looked like a bride on the dance floor; today, she was one. And in the same outfit. (When he had complimented her the night before that it still fit perfectly, she had confessed to letting it out that Monday night. "I'm just glad you still had it, it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen you wear," he said gallantly.) (So much for not seeing the bride.)

"Thank you," Tori said as the applause quieted. "As I said, you were invited for Thanksgiving. And… we had other plans, as well."

"Ice skating!" one of the kids yelled.

Tori laughed. "Yes, ice skating—in a couple of hours. But in the meantime…" She took a deep breath and looked down at Ducky. He wasn't surprised to see she had tears in her eyes. "We invite all of you to a celebration today… the wedding of Elizabeth Hamilton and Dr. Donald Mallard." The tide of chatter, gasps and happy shrieks drowned out her next words. "My Mom and Dad." They were rather covered by the catch in her voice as well.

Ducky glanced over; his mother was sitting at the front, a confused look on her face. Rowena was bent over, talking quietly in her ear. After a moment, her face cleared and she looked up at her; "Really?" she cried. Rowena nodded, grinning. "Oh, how lovely!"

Gibbs helped Tori back down from the table. "See you in a few," she laughed, hurrying down the makeshift aisle.

Ms. Appleton had come up behind them. "I was beginning to wonder if you two had changed your minds."

"Not a chance," Gibbs said with a grin. "He's outnumbered."

Ducky shot him a quelling look. Gibbs settled to a slight smirk then a respectfully blank face.

"Gentlemen…?" Ms. Appleton gestured to her left and they moved aside. There was something nice about having an officiant who was in his age range. It would be unnerving to ask if the ink on her certificate had dried yet.

Drew came streaking back from the music room, a camcorder in his hands, joining his wife and sisters and great-grandparents in the front. Moments later strains of Pachelbel's _Canon_ floated over the now-quiet crowd. _Trust __Elizabeth __to __be __non-traditional __to __the __end._

After a minute he could see his daughter walking slowly up the aisle, a small bouquet in her hands that matched the flowers in his lapel. She was trying hard to keep a genteel smile on her face, but every so often she'd break into a delighted grin. When she was about halfway up the aisle—

"Oh, God," he breathed.

Ealasaid. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. She looked like she was floating on the grass—which made sense, since he felt like he was floating himself.

A hand gently grasped his arm and Gibbs gave him a quiet glance. _You __okay?_

He nodded and straightened up a bit.

Elizabeth must have practiced on the sly, because only a few bars of music played out after she joined him in front of Ms. Appleton. She passed her bouquet to Tori and Ducky took her hands in his.

_I'm getting married._

"Friends and family…"

Ducky stared into her eyes, eyes that had held such hope and promise all those years ago—and still did today.

_I love you.  
><em>_More than all you know.  
><em>_I love you more than children.  
><em>_More than fields I've planted with my hands.  
><em>_I love you more than morning prayers or peace or food to eat.  
><em>_I love you more than sunlight, more than flesh or joy, or one more day._

_Am I anything you'd want?_

He felt her hands, warm in his. _You __are __all __that __I __want._

"…and repeat after me. I, Donald—"

"I, Donald… take you, Elizabeth… to be my wife—" His voice broke. "To be my wife," he repeated firmly. "To have and to hold from this day forward… for better, for worse… for richer, for poorer… in sickness and in health… to love, to honor, to cherish and obey—"

Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow and just a hint of a smile passed over her lips. There had been some strong words regarding the vows until Ducky had said that he planned on saying the word "obey" as well. "Do it, Mom," Tori had urged. "You'll have a million witnesses."

"Till death us do part." _No__… __not __even __then._

"Place the ring on her finger."

_The __ring. __Oh, __God, __the __ring!_ There was a gentle nudge to his arm; Gibbs handed the ring to him, his faint smile one of understanding. He slipped the wedding band onto her finger, where it nestled perfectly against its mate.

"I, Elizabeth…"

He stared at their hands, the words flowing around him, until he felt her slide the cool gold band onto his finger. It was almost a perfect match for hers despite being crafted a century and a half apart. He let out a deep breath.

_I'm married._

_It's real._

He looked up. "You may kiss your wife." Ms. Appleton looked amused.

"My wife," he said softly, as he had so many years ago. _And __this __time__… __it__'__s __for __real._

/ / /

"I know it's traditional to do this after the cake…" Elizabeth waved her bouquet in the air. "But I'm not going to haul everyone out here again. So anyone who wants in on the bouquet derby… over there!"

Ducky didn't know whether to laugh or groan when he saw his mother toddling along with the other single women. Again, Rowena came to his rescue, talking to her for a few moments. Mother looked at her in horror and allowed Drew to escort her to a safe place. Good. He didn't want to contemplate a stepfather at this stage in his life.

"Ready…" Elizabeth hefted the huge mass of flowers, brilliant colors that brought to mind spring and summer gardens. Tori had definitely had fun throwing this together.

"Aim…" someone in the back yelled.

"I heard that, Melanie!" Elizabeth hollered back. Looking over where the hapless males had congregated, Ducky saw a moment of fear pass over DiNozzo's face.

"One… two… _three_!" Elizabeth gave a mighty heave and the flowers arced high overhead, for the most part staying together.

There was a mad scramble (Ziva looked like she was trying to appear to be participating while staying as far from the bouquet as possible); after a moment the sea parted to reveal the victor, laughing her head off.

Tori.

"Rigged!" someone teased good-naturedly. "Fixed game!"

"It bounced off Abby's head into my arms! How was that fixed?" Tori laughed.

"Well!" Elizabeth said, slipping her hand through Ducky's elbow.

"No," he said firmly.

"No?"

"No. Not Tori. Not happening. _No_."

"Well… it's not like it's a contract written in stone or anything…"

"Good."

"But she and Blue _do_ make a cute couple."

"_**No**_."

* * *

><p>25<p> 


	26. Interpretation of a Theme

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Interpretation of a Theme**

_**Interpretation:** The expression  
>the performer brings when<br>playing his/her instrument.  
><em>_**Theme:** A melodic or sometimes  
>a harmonic idea presented in a musical form.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>November 26, 2009<strong>

Two or three dozen of the revelers had wished them well and headed for home, but they still had at least sixty people in tow (probably more, if he stopped to count)—and at least two thirds of them were planning to be on the ice.

Most surprising was his mother's insistence that she be included in the outing. When he tried to point out that it would be freezing at the rink, she shot back, "We live in Virginia. It snows here. I know what freezing feels like." (Amazing how she could track facts when they were decidedly to her advantage.) She slammed her cane against the floor, barely missing his foot. "_I __want __to __see __my __girls_ _skate!_" She glared at him, her feisty best.

Ah. No wonder she was marshalling all her faculties—she had a chance to see Rowena and Bronwyn on the ice instead of still photographs or blurred video.

"Mother—" Elizabeth stepped up, her cloak over her arms. "I have a lovely cloak that would keep you very warm at the ice rink if you'd like to borrow it. It's not heavy, either."

"How sweet!" She patted Elizabeth's arm. "I'm so glad he made an honest woman of you, dear," she whispered.

He could tell Elizabeth was trying not to burst out laughing, even as he sent a thank you to the gods above that Dr. Stewart wasn't within earshot. That could have erased all they had accomplished. "Well, that makes two of us, Mother," she finally managed.

Rowena, Victoria's preferred driver and eager slave, helped her from the room. Elizabeth gave in and whooped with laughter. "Honest woman?" she finally gasped.

"You always were," he teased, kissing her forehead. "Eventually, anyway."

Now, at the ice rink, his wife pouted up at him. "Aw, come on, once around the ice?" Music poured from the speakers, an eclectic mix of rock and roll from the sixties and seventies (with an occasional nod as far back as Glenn Miller and up to the eighties in the offing, he knew; Rowena had been mixing CDs for a couple of weeks).

"Elizabeth, it's been decades since I skated. The idea of these bones slamming into that ice—besides, when did you become such a fanatic? Tish had to all but drag you out of the stands."

She held up a finger. "Tori. Lessons. From the time she moved here until she was about fifteen. Still skated after that." A second finger. "Drew. Lessons from two until he was about seven. Still skated after that." Third finger. "Ronnie. Lessons until she was about ten. Need I go on? And who do you think drives them to and fro and usually gets to hang out on the ice with the kiddies? Mommy, Daddy or… hello, Grandma. I've had more accidental lessons than my mother ever paid for." She leaned close. "For a man who exercises, takes Pilates classes and is _so_ energetic in other athletic pursuits…"

He felt his face flame. "Fine. Once. But if anything happens, you explain to the paramedics."

"We'll get him back to form," Ronnie called out from several rows down.

Her grandmother gave her a thumbs-up. She scooped up a pair of skates and plopped them next to him. "Your size. Gibbs!" She grinned in delight over Ducky's shoulder. "You're joining us on the ice! Wonderful!"

Across the aisle, Abby jerked her head up and looked around in astonishment. She turned back and held a hurried conversation with the people to her side. One leaned back to look behind Abby—Ziva. She gave them a "who'd've thunk it?" look and leaned back into the group.

"You're causing a nine days' wonder already, Jethro," Ducky said, slipping out of his shoes. Elizabeth had reserved the entire back sheet as a private party for the evening; no worry about a stranger making off with his footwear. "You really do know how to ice skate?"

"Would _someone_ be wearing skates if they couldn't?" he said blandly.

"I know how to parachute out of a failing airplane, too, and it's not something for which I volunteer," Ducky muttered.

Gibbs gave him a cockeyed grin. "Ah, come on, Duck. It'll be… _fun_." Leaving him to lace up the skates, he clomped down the stairs.

"Here, Papa. Let me." Rowena sat on the bench in front of his, took his left boot in hand and started pulling the laces tight. "You're out of practice."

"Sorely," he admitted.

"You go out laced like that and you'll break an ankle." She whipped the laces around the hooks like the near-pro that she was and tied them off. "Next?"

He finished jamming his right foot into the skate and submitted it to her tender mercies. "You're very good at that."

"Don't need a lace puller," she said proudly. "All the peon decorating I do at the shop really helps."

Ducky thought of the wonderful massage he'd had the day before and grinned. "Guess so." He stood cautiously. "Have to get my sea legs."

"You go around with Ronnie and me a few times. It'll come back."

"Good God!"

"What?"

"When did Elizabeth learn to skate backwards?"

"You mean without falling on her ass-er-asterisk?" Rowena stumbled. "Ah, quite a while ago. With Drew. That's the best way to help little kids learn to go forward, those frames are useless."

Elizabeth was holding hands with, of all people, DiNozzo, gliding backwards while he held her hands and tried to go forward with a minimum of down time. "He'd better get the hang of it pretty quickly," Ducky groused. "That's my wife he's holding hands with."

Rowena giggled. "Oh, trust me. Mom knows all about Anthony DiNozzo." She held Ducky's hand as they cautiously walked down the steps. "Ronnie!"

Bronwyn poked her head up from several seats down. "Coming!" She carefully climbed to the row behind Sassy, Dr. Stewart, and Mrs. Mallard and hurried to the aisle. "Ready?"

"Hang on." They had gotten to the bottom step, where Mrs. Mallard sat at the outermost edge of the bleacher. "Grandmother? Are you comfortable? Is the seat too hard? I can get you a cushion."

"No, dear. Are you going to skate?" she asked hopefully.

"Yep. Ronnie and I are going to take Papa out and get him reacquainted with the ice."

"That has ominous tones to it," he muttered.

She looked astonished. "Donald can't skate!"

"Well, it has been quite a while, Mother." He grimaced. "So you may be more accurate than you know," he added, half to himself.

"Hey, Duck! There ya go!"

He glowered at Gibbs. "Why aren't _you_ on the ice?"

"Waitin' for Faith." He took a sip of his coffee. "She had to _change_," he said with a wry smile.

Ronnie was looking up the stairs. "Boy, did she."

Gibbs glanced up—then did a classic double-take. "Ready, Jethro?" Faith sailed up to him in a glittering white body suit that left no doubt as to her gender. It wasn't too tight, but it sure was snug. A knee length skirt made of about ten miles of chiffon only added to the appeal.

"Aren't you gonna freeze in that?" Gibbs managed. He looked her over repeatedly—and apparently with new eyes.

"Not once I warm up a bit." She grabbed his shoulder and hiked up a foot. "Thanks." She slipped the blade guard off first one skate than the other and set them aside.

Ronnie leaned over to her sister. "She's got her own skates," she muttered with a little chortle. She didn't try to hide her comment.

"We call that 'a ringer' in these parts," Rowena muttered back. Faith just smiled at them.

Each of his granddaughters took a hand, both saying encouraging comments as he stepped on the ice. There was the momentary terror as he felt the floor slip away as though he stood on a bank of rollers; _you__'__ve __done __it __before, __you __can __do __it __again,_ he thought grimly. He pushed off tentatively, gaining confidence with each stroke.

"Oh, you faker! You don't need our help!" Rowena teased.

"You're keeping me on my feet," he retorted.

"Well, Grandma just abandoned her student—aw, looks like Abby is going to give him a hand," Ronnie laughed.

Rowena gave an evil grin. "He may live… he may not. Shall we set up an odds chart?"

"Sure!" Ronnie let go of his hand, but before he could panic he felt a glove trimmed with kitten-soft fluff take her place.

"You silly goose, where are your gloves?" Elizabeth laughed.

"At home," he admitted with a wry smile.

"Spare pair in my right jacket pocket. Want to try to get them out?"

"No," he said, firmly but politely. "Could you? I'd cause a traffic accident."

She let got of his hand, neatly swung over to the side Rowena had vacated and took his right hand. She dug in her pocket and handed over a pair of plain tan gloves. "Not stylish, but functional."

"Thank you." He glided to a stop at one of the gates, out of the flow of the other skaters and pulled them on. "You've really improved."

"You'll catch up. I see Rowena taking her Papa out on the ice every chance she gets."

"Thank you for the warning."

She looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Of course… you could just go skating with Gibbs."

He turned and looked where she was focused and gasped. "Jethro…?"

Gibbs was skating. Very well. _Exceedingly_ well. Faith was doing neat crossovers and half-turns while she moved around the perimeter; Gibbs wasn't doing anything fancy, just… smooth. Easy, measured strokes, hands clasped behind his back, watching Faith while talking to her and instinctively moving around the other skaters. Occasionally, when the area ahead was open, he'd switch to skating backwards.

"No wonder he was so calm when I told him about the after-dinner activities."

Gibbs caught his scrutiny and grinned. As he came around the corner, he called out, "Grew up with frozen lakes and ponds, Duck. You can't always go ice fishing!"

Ducky sighed. "I should have known."

Elizabeth laughed and took his gloved hand in hers. "Come on, spouse. Skate with me."

It was a much easier go of it when he concentrated on Elizabeth and just let his feet find the rhythm of the ice. He passed (and was passed by) friends and relations new and old, some doing far better than he and some still struggling to give up the safety of a death grip on the wall. Not surprising, Abby was fearless on the ice. She had definitely mastered forward (if she wanted a new career, he was sure the Olympic speed skating team could use her) and backward and had even learned a simple turn and spin (almost as fast as she sometimes chattered). Ziva—well, Ziva actually looked like she was having fun. Smiling, joking—laughing. He smiled; it was nice to see Ziva relaxed and enjoying herself. Her friend from her citizenship class, a shy young woman named Tovah, was at about the same skill level. They were circling around the ice with, of all people, Jimmy Palmer (whose date had had to leave as she was general manager of Gattleson's, the new chi-chi department store in D.C., and Friday was her first Black Friday at the store). He looked… relaxed. Would wonders never cease?

Sam and Elena and her relatives were all wobbling around the ice and having a good time. (Sam, probably from taking the kids to lessons as much as Elizabeth or Tori, was actually doing pretty well.) Sam's cousin Tom—and his five children—had joined the party. Ducky kept an eagle eye on them (especially the chocolate-lobbing twins) but apparently their behavior improved when the level of activity increased. Granted, they were skating around like little demons, but their speed was no worse than, say, Abby, and their harried father frequently brought them down with yells of, "Hey! Freeway speed, okay?"

"I have to admit—this was a wonderful idea," Ducky said.

"Well, it's not a lake and we aren't dressed appropriately—but it has this nice Currier and Ives feel to it. Very holiday." Elizabeth laughed. "Though, usually we don't have quite this crowd!"

"This must be costing you a fortune."

"Not really. The ice would have been empty anyway, so I haggled the manager down to half price if I paid for all four hours. I was already taking two, so why not? Figure if we were on the front sheet it would be, what, ten bucks a head including skates. So that's about seven hundred. Five-fifty or so at group rate."

"Ow."

"I'm paying the same amount for private ice. If we want to clear it for the show-offs we can. And, we will—the girls have something planned, Mother really wants to see them skate. Plus, they gave us big urns of coffee and cocoa and cider for free."

"You know how to drive a bargain."

"It helps when you've been paying into the system for the past thirty-five years. I've been here longer than any employee—and the owners have changed hands twice!" She squeezed his arm. "Come on… time to go backwards."

"Oh, no—no, no, no, no, _no_." He shook his head emphatically. "I wasn't good even back in the day, I'm not—"

"Aw, come on," she wheedled. She slipped behind to change sides, leaning close to tease, "Let's see some of that great hip action of yours, mmmh?"

"That's for private shows only," he shot back.

"Promise?"

He looked at her glittering eyes and grinned. "Promise."

"It is our wedding night…"

"And if I'm spending time with you, I would much rather be in bed than on the ice." To his chagrin, at that moment Abby went whisking by and clearly heard what he said. She whipped her head around, eyes wide, then a grin quickly spread across her face. As she skated off in reverse, he found himself the recipient of a very broad wink (causing Elizabeth to giggle uncontrollably)… just before she collided with the wall. (It was better than colliding with Sandy and Ray, who missed the impact by barely a foot.)

Ducky skidded to a stop and held out a hand. "Are you all right, my dear?"

"Yeah, yeah… thanks. Mostly embarrassed." She scrambled to her feet, dusting ice shavings from her rear.

"Yes, well… that's what comes from listening in on other people's conversations." He gave her an arch look.

She grinned. "And that's what made smackin' into the wall worth it. Mrow!" She merged into the flow of skaters and tore off, pigtails flying.

Ducky shook his head, laughing. "Would you mind if we took a bit of a rest?"

"Not at all." She skated to the next gate and stepped off.

"Cocoa?" he suggested, following her.

"Sounds good." She held up a hand as he pulled two cups from the stack. "If you'd prefer tea, I brought a thermos."

He smiled. "You're so sweet. But I think cocoa is a bit more traditional."

"Would your mother rather have tea?"

He snorted. "She'd rather have a hot toddy, heavy on the rum."

"Ah. No can do."

"Thank God. Oh, cider would be fine, I think. Your dad?"

"Coffee. Doctored to death."

Carrying large Styrofoam cups they carefully walked to the other side of the rink. Sassy was sitting next to Dr. Stewart, chattering away; his mother had a look of confused disbelief on her face. Between them, Dr. Stewart was carefully studying his gloved hands, a smile playing about his mouth.

"—never made a wrong _turn_, caught on so _fast_, even drove the _free_way that night but _Ed_die, poor _Ed_die, I thought he was going to end up in the _car_diac ward, he just jumped every time a car _passed_ us, poor boy, cars were on the _wrong_ _side_, he kept saying, I _knew_ he should never drive, but Ducky, I mean _Donald_, he was such a _good_ driver—"

His mother snorted in a most unladylike way. "He drives too fast."

"Really?" Sassy looked astonished. "Well, that was California, _everyone_ drives fast—"

"Cocoa?" Ducky offered. He hated to interrupt people, but with Sassy it wasn't rudeness—it was necessity.

"Oh, no, thanks, I got a Coke at the snack bar."

"A _Coke_?" She held up a cup the size Abby usually used for her Caf-pows, something close to two liters. "Aren't you _freezing_?"

Dr. Stewart laughed and shook his head. "She's pouting because it isn't snowing. She wanted to play in the snow. We moved back to the beach because if it cracks eighty she has a conniption—but snow at the holidays is something else."

"Oh, pooh," Sassy teased. "Like I had to force you."

"True."

"Andy… coffee?" When Dr. Stewart peered up at him. "Cream and—" he tried not to wince. "Twelve sugars?" It was larger than a standard coffee cup; he hoped he had the ratio correct.

"Why, thank you, Donald." He took the cup with a smirk. "At least _you_ don't bitch at me."

_Please. You could have a pint of cream, a cup of sugar and three drops of coffee and I'm not saying one word._

"Mother?" Elizabeth leaned close. "Would you like to try some hot apple cider?"

His mother beamed at her. "Do you have any rum?"

"Ah… no, I'm sorry."

"Oh." Her face fell. "Thank you," she said politely. She took the cup, probably to warm her hands if nothing else. "When will my girls skate?"

"They're skating right now." Ducky leaned over her shoulder. "Ah… there. See? There's Rowena. And Ronnie just skated up next to her. They're in the middle—oh, they're holding hands and spinning in the middle, look at them!"

"Oh, Donald!" His mother looked delighted. "That looks such fun! I want to skate!"

_Oh, __brother._ "Ah… Mother… you don't know how to skate. I'm sure Rowena would love to teach you on another day, but—it's awfully crowded."

"Oh." She looked disappointed. "Another day?"

"Another day." _Over __my __dead __body._

"All right." Rowena and Ronnie were having an animated discussion, fingers pointing, hands spinning, arms swinging in arcs. He knew they were planning something, but he wasn't sure what.

"Donald?" His mother hissed his name and wagged her fingers.

He leaned closer. "Yes, Mother?"

She glanced at Sassy, who was talking on the left with a fringe relative or friend whose name he couldn't remember. "Is she your granddaughter?"

He looked at her in shock. Sassy was actually a year or two older than he was. Granted, her hair was well dyed and she was meticulous about her make-up—but _still_…! "Ah—no, Mother," he said cautiously.

She shuddered. "Thank God. Poor thing makes no sense at all."

He turned slowly and met his wife's gaze. "Cocoa?" she asked sympathetically.

"Is it spiked?" he whispered.

"Later."

/ / /

A sharp whistle split the air. "Okay! Everybody outta the pool!" Gibbs jerked his thumb toward the exits. "Don't complain to me, I'm following orders."

Grumbling good-naturedly the other skaters slid and fumbled their way off the ice. Gibbs looked up toward the sound booth and held out his hands; _well?_

Barry Manilow cut off in mid-note. After a moment there was a scratch and a pop; "Hello? Hi? Hi!" After a minute Ronnie skated to the middle of the ice, a microphone in her hand, passing Gibbs on the way. "Thank you, Uncle Jethro." Gibbs rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Okay, just waiting for my sister, here… oh, sorry for the mike, everyone, but in this place, it's a necessity. Okay, Rosie, where are you…"

"Don't call me that!" Only the first few rows could hear Rowena as she skated out to join her sister. Ducky was struck again at the difference between the girls—Ronnie, tiny, delicate and, under all that hair dye, a pale blonde; Rowena, tall, athletic and such a brilliant shade of copper hair… but absolutely identical smiles.

_My granddaughters. My precious girls._

"Okay… Ronnie and I have been trying to coordinate this for a couple of weeks—"

"Yeah—try getting practice time together three thousand miles apart," her sister groused.

"We tried sending video feed—"

"I'm going to be in therapy for that one."

"So we decided we'd just each do our own thing. The first time I went out to visit Grandmother, I promised we'd both skate for her today—and we had also planned something for Nana and Papa to celebrate their _engagement_." Rowena put her hands on her hips and looked out over everyone sitting in the bleachers. "See?" she complained. "You weren't the only ones they kept in the dark!"

"And the only reason we found out was because they needed someone to guard the doors!"

Elizabeth slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. "True enough," she admitted.

"But… we aren't going to hold it against them, and hope you won't, either. So… after this afternoon's festivities, Ronnie and I decided to switch around our lineup and you'll understand in a minute why." Rowena took the microphone from her sister, skated over to set it on the ledge and quickly got off the ice while her sister headed in the other direction. When Bronwyn returned to the ice she had divested herself of her jacket and fleece pants and now wore an outfit suitable for a skating competition, dark maroon with forest green accents and glittering crystal beading. Very festive, very Christmassy.

She struck a pose in the middle of the ice and waited patiently. After a few moments the music began and she pushed off into a loping spin.

Elizabeth sighed. "Always thought she was psychic."

Ducky recognized the music from that afternoon—a group called Trans-Siberian Orchestra, performing something they'd titled _Christmas_ _Canon_… a holiday version of Pachelbel's _Canon_ complete with a boys' choir. Psychic, indeed.

Bronwyn flew about the ice faster than he could have imagined possible. Tiny though she was, her jumps would have had Tish cheering with the rest of the crowd.

Elizabeth rested her head on his shoulder. "I know it's crazy, but… seeing her on the ice like that, I feel like she's finally come to peace with herself."

Ducky slipped his hand beneath hers so that he could see her rings sitting on her finger. "Not crazy at all."

Ronnie finished with a dramatic spin and sudden stop. She curtseyed to the generous applause, then skated off the ice.

"Blast!"

Elizabeth sat up. "What?"

"Why didn't I think to tape this—"

Laughing, she pointed off. Following her indication, he saw Drew with the camcorder he had used during the wedding, filming Rowena entering the rink. "Believe me—we head out to the rink, someone grabs a camera. It's in our DNA."

"Thank heavens." As soon as he heard the opening notes he stole a glance at his mother. As she had with Ronnie, she was following Rowena's skating with a careful eye, but she hadn't seemed to notice the music. He shook his head; Ro had been playing a Christmas CD in her car the first time he'd taken her to see his mother (and then taken them out to dinner on Rowena's suggestion); she had fallen in love with the _O, __Holy __Night_ track, asking Rowena to play it over and over… and over… and over. Rowena had made a copy of the CD as well as a copy of the song some fourteen or fifteen times in a row.

"That's Josh Groban," Mother announced to Dr. Stewart and Sassy.

Well, damn. She _was_ paying attention.

"Yes. I'm quite a fan of his music," Dr. Stewart said with a smile.

"My great-granddaughter… is going to _marry_ him," Mother continued smugly.

Oh, well. Back to her own universe…

Rowena ended by gracefully half-kneeling on one leg, the other foot extended behind her and sliding to a stop dead center on the ice.

"This does make me feel guilty for not being much of a churchgoer over the years," he said.

Elizabeth sighed. "I, ah, know what you mean. I'm good at sending in my pledge envelopes, but I don't even make it in for 'Merry Christmas and for those we don't see very often, Happy Easter, too' services."

"St. Dunstan's?" He remembered she had grown up a lackadaisical Episcopalian, near twin of the Anglican Church he had attended in his youth.

She shook her head. "St. Thomas's." He frowned, not recognizing the name from the area, and she shrugged her shoulders. "It's in D.C. They tend to be a little more… liberal in their thinking. And it was very convenient when I was taking culinary classes, and not that far from the store, they were a big help when it was just Tori and me…" She tipped her head. "You?"

"St. Anne's. You might like it. I've missed services more often than I've managed to attend—but I do still manage to help out at a clinic they run…"

She nodded. "Tuesdays." He looked at her sharply. "You're usually busy Tuesday night. You never say where you're going, I never press… but everything else is, 'I'm going to see Mother,' 'A lecture at Georgetown' or whatever." She bumped her forehead against his. "I had a feeling you were doing something… good."

He smiled. It was nice to be with someone who automatically ascribed positive thoughts to you in your absence.

"Now… Grandfather and Sassy have always liked one particular song at Christmas—" Rowena said into the microphone, still breathing hard.

"Never mind that we haven't skated this since I was, jeez, ten?"

Rowena waved a hand. "Eight, for me."

"So… be kind?" Ronnie pleaded.

Rowena replaced the microphone on the ledge, and Ducky realized that her outfit was a mirror-image negative print of her sister's. Where Ronnie wore maroon, Rowena wore green and vice versa. It worked perfectly, the dark green more attractive against Rowena's coloring and hair and the maroon looking stunning on Ronnie. "What's your dad's favorite Christmas song?" Ducky whispered.

Elizabeth was shaking her head and trying not to giggle. "Watch."

The girls posed in the center of the ice, hand on hip, elbows almost bumping, outer arms upraised and hands sharply splayed.

"_Oooooo—  
>Merry Christmas, Saint Nick…<em>  
><em>Christmas comes this time each year…"<em>

Ducky began to laugh. "The Beach Boys?"

"California born and bred—what else?"

The girls skated a fairly simple routine—Elizabeth whispered that it was from a Christmas show years ago, when they were at much lower levels—but they still had fun, and it was interesting watch them do identical moves and time it out perfectly so that they stopped and started and moved in synch despite the vast difference in height. Particularly intriguing was when they ended by linking hands and spinning in a circle in the center, first one holding them down and the other leaping while going in the circle—then changing their positions. "That looks like fun."

"Wanna try it?"

"Ah—no. At this age, like roller coasters, I shall admire from a distance."

Rowena reclaimed the microphone. "Wow. Just goes to prove, you learn something early, it sticks with you."

Ronnie put her arms up and began to 'walk' in place on the ice. "_Twinkle, __twinkle, __little_—" was picked up by the mike.

Rowena put a hand on her hip and gave her a baffled look. "What are you doing?"

"You're right, you really do remember the old stuff. _Little __star, __how __I_—"

Ducky could see Cherie, Ro's old coach, laughing loudest of the crowd. She probably remembered when Ronnie had learned that as a child.

"Knock it off. You have a song cue coming up."

Hands still up, Ronnie stopped in mid-step. "I'm already singing. _How __I __wonder __what __you_—"

"To _skate_," Rowena said patiently.

Ronnie smiled brightly. "Oh. Yeah." She stopped marching in place and dropped her arms.

Ro skated off, shaking her head. "God pity the country, people, she's old enough to vote, now."

"And, yes… they grew up on old _Smothers __Brothers_ and _Laugh-In_ tapes," Elizabeth said around her laughter.

"Those must have been interesting years."

Ronnie pointed to Ducky and Elizabeth then gave them two thumbs up gestures, grinning widely. Waiting for the music to start, she struck a pose that made Ducky almost wince—standing on one skate, the other foot crossed over and toe on the ice, body arced to the side and arms upraised like a ballerina, it was making his back hurt just to look at her. On the first note she spun in an imitation of a music box figurine, did a small jump and quickly began skating in earnest.

"_There's a new world somewhere  
>They call the Promised Land<br>And I'll be there some day  
>If you will hold my hand<br>I still need you there beside me  
>No matter what I do<br>For I know I'll never find another you—"_

Holding Elizabeth's hand tightly, he smiled through the tears in his eyes. Silly child… she couldn't have found a more perfect song. (Elizabeth gave up her fight and used her glove to wipe her cheeks.)

"_But if I should lose your love, dear  
>I don't know what I'll do<br>For I know I'll never find another you,  
>Another you, another you!"<em>

She ended her final spin with one hand flung into the air, the other pointing straight at Ducky and Elizabeth.

"Okay, I am officially a watering pot." Elizabeth dug in her coat pocket for some crumpled tissues. "Oh… bless you." She gratefully took the handkerchief from him. "Sure you don't need it?"

"Ach. Men are stoic," he said firmly, blinking hard.

She caught the determined look and rapidly blinking eyelids and snorted. "Bull." But she didn't give up the handkerchief.

Rowena was skating slowly to the middle of the ice, microphone in hand. "Well… hi." She had a funny smile on her face; Ducky wasn't quite sure if he should trust her. (From Elizabeth's expression, she was wondering the same thing.) "Family communication at a holiday dinner being faster than the speed of light, by the time everyone made it from the front door to the back yard, _everybody_ knew _everything_ about Nana and Papa." She nodded slowly. "Except that they were getting married today, neyh, neyh, neyh!" she said quickly, sticking out her tongue. Everyone laughed good-naturedly at the teasing.

"But… I have a story for you all," she continued, the smile sneaking back in. Uh-oh. "A lonnnnnng time ago—"

"In a galaxy far, far away!" someone yelled.

"Close—California," she shot back. "So—once upon a time… a… _prince_… came to the far-off land of California." She waved a hand toward Ducky. There was a run of applause and someone yelled, 'Prince Ducky!' Probably Abby.

He almost groaned; _why __am __I __sitting __where __my __father-in-law __can __kill __me __if __he __doesn__'__t __like __this __story? __God __knows __there __are __enough __sharp __objects __around._

Elizabeth dropped her head into her hand and moaned. "I thought she'd stopped looking at those pictures and making up stories," she hissed in an undertone. "Argh!"

"And there… he met a beautiful princess." Rowena continued in a dramatic, storybook voice. Her wave included Elizabeth, who just shook her head resignedly, feebly waving a hand to acknowledge her share of applause. "The prince took the princess… to a concert." She nodded sagely, encouraging the 'ooooohs' from the audience. "Okay, it was the Moody Blues," she admitted, dropping out of character. There were a few scattered cries of, 'Whoo!' "Yeah, lotta old hippies in our family tree," she said in the same tone. She resumed her storyteller pose. "As I said… the prince took the princess to a concert. And there… they fell in love." _Well__… __close __enough. __What__'__s __one __week?_ "The prince asked the princess to marry him—and she said _yes_." She waited for the spattering of applause to die off. "But, as a great philosopher once said, 'Life is what happens while you're off making other plans.'"

"John Lennon," he said, grinning when Elizabeth said it at the same moment.

"So the prince and the princess were separated… for _forty_ _years_." She stared at the audience dramatically.

"Donald—that's just like _you_!" His mother looked up at him in astonishment, even as people within the sound of her voice laughed. In the silence, her voice had carried quite far. Rowena stared at the ice, shoulders shaking, her lips pressed together, trying to regain her composure.

"Yes, Mother." He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze and dropped a kiss to her temple. "It is."

Rowena pulled herself together—barely. "Ahhhh… Yes. Forty years. But—!" She held up a finger. "The princess had a fairy godmother—mmmh, no, god_sister_—keeping an eye on things." Elizabeth laughed softly and shook her head, staring at her lap. "And, working her magic from beyond, the fairy _godsister_ brought the prince and princess back together again. And, forty years later, the prince took the princess to… another concert." She looked at the audience; no answer. She looked at them more expectantly; still no answer. She shook her head sadly. "Man, you gotta spell it out for some people," she muttered into the mike. "M…" she coached. "O… O…"

About a dozen voices yelled out, "MOODY BLUES!"

"I was staring to worry. Yes. The prince took the princess to _another_ Moody Blues concert, he asked her _again_ to marry him… and, thank heavens, she said yes and all of you joined us today—or we'd be eating wedding cake until Groundhog Day."

Ducky laughed along with the rest, shaking his head.

"Told you," Elizabeth laughed. "She reminds me a lot of you."

Ducky started to object, but there was a chuckle from behind them. "Oh, yeah." Gibbs was grinning. "Definite family resemblance." Faith, Gibbs' jacket over her shoulders, laughed and nodded in agreement.

"And… I _swear_ I chose this without talking to my sister and it was long before I mugged Nana for all the details when I saw the sparkly on her finger. Honest." She tucked the microphone on the ledge and hurried back to center ice.

"_Story __in __Your __Eyes_?" Elizabeth suggested.

Ducky shrugged. "_Question_?"

"Oh, good idea. Fits."

But it only took a few notes, Rowena swooping like an exotically colored swan on the ice, for Elizabeth to burst into tears.

"_I know you're out there somewhere,  
>Somewhere, somewhere—<br>I know I'll find you somewhere,  
>And somehow I'll return again to you."<em>

He held Elizabeth as her tears again fell on his shoulder…and was glad Drew was taping everything, because his eyes were frequently too blurry to see Rowena on the ice.

"_And if you wake up wondering  
>In the darkness I'll be there<br>My arms will close around you  
>And protect you with the truth."<em>

He knew his cheeks were as wet as his wife's, but there was little he could do about it. A gentle hand on his arm startled him; he looked up and saw his mother smiling at him with a lifetime of understanding. And she was holding out her favorite lace-trimmed handkerchief. He accepted it gratefully. "Thank you, Mother."

She patted his cheek. "I love you, Donald."

He smiled. "I love you, too, Mother."

"You really should remember to carry a handkerchief, Donald."

There was a sniffling laugh from his other side. "I'll try, Mother."

"That's a good boy." She turned back to the end of Rowena's skating. She grasped Dr. Stewart's arm excitedly. "That's—that's my great-granddaughter!"

He didn't bat an eyelash. "Yes. She's my great-granddaughter, too."

The music came to an end to rolling applause and she looked at him in horrified astonishment. "Are—are you my ex-husband?" She gave him a close inspection. "I thought he died!"

Elizabeth's face slipped behind his arm, where her shaking shoulders were slightly hidden. "God, I love your mother," she whispered. "Only she can send me from sobbing sentimentality to laughing my ass off in the same minute."

He smiled as Dr. Stewart patiently explained that no, he was _not_ Charles Mallard and he was _not_ romantically interested in her sister Gloria. For all he worried about her, for all she drove him to the brink of distraction and then pushed him right over the edge—he adored his mother. "Mother is… special that way."

She bumped her forehead against his. "So are you."

* * *

><p>26<p> 


	27. Madrigal Rewrite as Duet

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Madrigal (Rewrite as Duet)**

_**Madrigal:** A contrapuntal  
>song written for at least<br>three voices, usually  
>without accompaniment.<br>__**Duet:** A piece of music  
>written for two vocalists<br>or instrumentalists._

* * *

><p><strong>November 27, 2009<strong>

"I can't believe you didn't tell us before! _Why_ didn't you tell us before?" Rowena whipped her head toward her sister. "You knew—!"

Bronwyn held her hands up in defense. "I barely knew! And I figured she told everyone else when I found out—"

"I meant to," Elizabeth said quickly. "But things got so crazy, so fast, these past weeks I just… forgot."

"My grandmother is a _folk_ _singer_?" Unlike his youngest sister, Drew was more amused than irritated. "Did you, like, go on marches and stuff, too?"

"What? No, no, this was—it was just, kind of a lark. They recorded one whole song—"

"You were _supposed_ to record an album, you just kept putting it off." Dennys smiled from behind his cup of tea.

"Ratfink." It was barely audible as she sucked in a breath.

"Nana!" Ro looked astonished. "Why didn't you?"

She sighed. "It wasn't something I planned. And my… mother… wasn't exactly thrilled over it. That's why I sang under an assumed name in the first place. I thought if I recorded an album, it would just be one more clue people could use to connect the two of us." She shook her head. "I mean me with Annalee. Oh, I don't know what I mean!"

"But… we're all driving up to Philly because of this?" Rowena asked.

"Pittsburgh. But—yes, if you want to come. Ronnie and I committed to doing the show, if you don't want—"

"Don't? What's this 'don't' stuff? Watch you and Ronnie, on stage? Duh!"

"Not to mention, everyone in the folk music world will be there," Dennys said. "Everyone who's still—"

Maddie closed her eyes. "Don't say it," she murmured.

"—able to sing," he finished after a second's hesitation.

"Hey, I'm up for a road trip," Drew said gamely.

"I have to be honest," Elizabeth cautioned. "Malcolm wasn't sure how many rooms he could get, it being the holidays and all. Now, the hotel is near Carnegie Mellon, so most students will go home for the holidays, which will help. But some people will be staying in the hotel because of the medical center, and depending on the weather—"

"We'll fake it," Maddie said. "Throw all the sleeping bags in the car, we'll figure it out when we get there."

"Donald?" Dr. Stewart turned toward his son-in-law, glasses catching the overhead light and hiding his eyes. "Will your mother be joining us?"

Those eyes had to be laughing. "No," he said politely. "Mother doesn't like long drives." He heard Tori start to draw in a breath and very gently stepped on her toes; she quickly shoved a slightly unladylike-sized bite of pumpkin pie in her mouth. "And she had a rather long day of it yesterday." (She was probably still asleep. By the end of the evening she had found _somebody__'__s_ bottle, _somewhere_, had spiked her cider with a liberal hand and had ended up singing _O, __Holy __Night_ at full volume as Rowena and Ducky gently dragged her back to Cambridge Care just before midnight. Unfortunately—musically, anyway—at the time Rowena was playing the soundtrack from _Mulan_. When she tried to turn it off, Mrs. Mallard objected—but continued to belt out her favorite carol, regardless.)

"What a shame. Delightful woman."

If Dr. Stewart weren't so very happily married to Sassy, Ducky would have worried. His mother and Dr. Stewart had been almost joined at the hip the entire day before and all too many times when he wandered by he heard his mother relating stories of his childhood and youth with annoying clarity. The more embarrassing the story, the more accurate her recall, and Dr. Stewart had been a rapt audience. "She is… unique."

"Are you sure she wouldn't—"

"We'll tape the show for her when it airs, Daddy," Elizabeth said firmly. "Donald knows his mother best."

"Mom—I know you need to be there, and I'd love to be, but I should probably be at the store—"

"We always have short hours the weekend after Thanksgiving. Payroll was handed out Wednesday. They can handle it for two half-days, Tori," Elizabeth said reasonably. "So, are you comfortable driving up?" She looked at Maddie.

"No problem. I just couldn't hack cross country in November, so we took the train," she said.

"We can take the Jeep," Drew said quickly. "It's newer than your van, Grandma."

"I'm more than happy to pass on the task of lead pack mule," she said. "The bigger question I have is… after forty years, do I break the silence?" The younger half of the group looked at one another. "Back then, it was easy to hide under a false name. Nowadays, it's a lot harder. It wouldn't be forty-eight hours after the show goes out that someone won't be posting on the Internet, 'I know who Annalee really is.' I see the choices as really going overboard on the disguise and hoping for the best… or coming clean right from the start. Since everyone here will be affected, I figured you should have a say in the matter." She turned to Ducky on her right. "You start, let's go around the table."

_Lead __monkey __at __the __circus. __Marvelous._ "May I abstain? Didn't think so," he sighed at her look. "All right… I have no problems with either decision. But I think that the storm would last a lot longer if you continue the charade. A few well-chosen, well-placed words at the beginning and people will treat it as a matter of fact and move on. Continue hiding behind a costume, and there will be weeks of questions."

"So that's a tentative vote for coming out of the costume closet?" Elizabeth asked.

"Ah—yes."

"Tori?"

"Sure. Maybe it's not too late to record that album."

"No way in hell. Sassy?"

She gave Ducky a teasing look. "If _any_one should abstain, it should be _me_. But—me, _per_sonally, I say _go_ for it. _My_ big worry is the _kids_—other kids can be really _nas_ty."

"Daddy?"

"You know my feelings, Baby. I only went along with the disguise to keep peace in the nation."

"Midi?"

"Go for it. Call Barbara Walters." No shilly-shallying with Midori on any subject.

"Drew?"

Drew laughed. "Please. This may knock me up a few points. I'm with Mom, do the album."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "They're going to do a CD and DVD to push during the beg break, I'm sure. Den?"

Dennys and Maddie spoke as one. "Do it."

Before even being asked, Bronwyn gave her a double thumbs-up gesture and headed for the kitchen. "Ro?"

"Well… I appreciate Sassy's concern. And she's right. Kids can be really nasty over some stupid stuff. And the school does a pretty good job of riding herd, but… hey, no offense, but, the kids are going to be technologically faster than the adults. Laws can't keep up and neither can school admins."

Ducky laid his hand on Elizabeth's; she turned hers over to twine their fingers together. Everything Rowena was saying was true. He heard about it every day on the news, in the papers—sometimes, heartbreakingly, on his autopsy table, children and young adults who were pushed beyond their limits and finally broke.

"But nobody's going to bother me. They're almost scared of me. I work in the forensics lab at NCIS, my grandfather is the medical examiner there, I am a goddess among my peers—jeez, when Paxton started hassling me at the rink, yesterday, Abby—well, I don't know what she said to him, but he apologized for, like, ten minutes."

Ducky knew Abby very well. She had taken Paxton's cavalier breakup with Rowena (via text message!) very personally. He had a pretty good idea what she had said (and backed her 1000%).

"So… if you're worried about itty bitty little me being hassled—don't be. And I think you should do that album, too."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "There _is_ no album."

Ronnie came back bearing a plate with a huge slab of wedding cake on it. "Huh. Haven't talked to Malcolm lately, have you?"

Elizabeth paled. "Not since he faxed the hotel information to me… why?"

"Well… Pete Seeger hit ninety last spring, Mary, well… we know. There's been a big swell of interest in folk music, they run the specials on PBS across the country, like, constantly…"

"And… Malcolm said they're interested in the Bawdy Barmaids, too," Maddie said tentatively.

Ducky began to laugh. "Dear god," he said at several surprised looks. "That awful, awful tartan!"

Elizabeth began to smile, then to laugh. "Yeah… it was pretty bad, wasn't it."

Maddie grinned. "I still have mine."

/ / /

Drew was, as Rowena had told Ducky months ago, an excellent driver—and it was nice to kick back, relax and let someone else do the work. (Alone with Elizabeth in the third seat, it also gave him a chance to snuggle up with his bride—and for them to promptly fall asleep on each other.)

Save barely-awake looks at a mid-trip stop to top off the gas tank, they didn't awaken until Drew pulled into the parking lot. "Grandma… is this right?"

Elizabeth peered out the window. Workmen were busy removing the neon letters from the front of the hotel. "Malcolm said the hotel was in the middle of negotiations for sale. I guess it went through."

"Hope that doesn't screw things up," Drew muttered as they climbed out of the car.

_Same, __here._Ducky was not enthralled with the idea of sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag.

"Well, yesterday I left Mal a voice message that we'd probably be ten or eleven in number. His fax back said he'd reserved two double suites and hope for the best."

Ducky leaned over. "What—they can't find two with a sitting room in between?" he murmured.

She snickered. "And he passed on his congratulations." They crunched their way across the frozen asphalt and into the lobby. Things were starting to be changed out, a beach theme for slightly heavier pieces in dark cream with accents of gold, maroon and royal blue. "Good afternoon, we're checking in, reservation number 34H778-1441."

The clerk typed in the numbers. "Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Ah, the reservation is under Hamilton, but as of yesterday, it's Mrs. Mallard."

The young woman smiled. "Congratulations. Could you wait a moment, please? Mrs. Rickard needs to check you in personally."

When she stepped away from the desk, Elizabeth turned to Ducky. "Great. I really hate sleeping bags," she murmured.

"I'm sure everything is fine," he soothed.

"First thing Monday… I'm getting my name changed on everything."

"Gotta wait until the state sends your official copy of the license," Drew put in.

"Damn."

"Don't worry, everyone at the shop will call you Mrs. Mallard," Tori said comfortingly.

"Mrs. Mallard?"

Grinning, Elizabeth turned around. "Yes?"

The middle-aged woman walking with the desk clerk held out her hand. "I'm Mrs. Rickard, general manager. Malcolm Fenn has been on the telephone every day making sure we'd be ready."

Elizabeth looked startled. "Oh. That's, ah, that's nice." Ducky exchanged puzzled looks with Tori.

"I understand your confusion. It was to be a surprise—when he found out you were getting married this week. He wanted to keep the two suites for the rest of your party, but wanted to reserve the honeymoon suite for you and your husband. The sale went through much earlier than planned, so we're trying to get a jump on the Christmas season. Unfortunately, we started redecorating the honeymoon suite last weekend, just before he called."

Elizabeth started to say, "Oh, how sweet—" but it quickly changed to, "Oh, dear." She smiled gamely. "Well, it's not as though we were planning on it…"

"Well, as I said, Mr. Fenn has been calling every day, and I was able to tell him that the suite was completed this morning. You and Mr. Mallard—"

"Doctor," Elizabeth gently corrected.

"—Dr. Mallard… will be our very first occupants." She looked around, "Is this… all of your party?"

"No, no, they'll be along directly. We came in two vehicles." Elizabeth looked around toward the door. "And… there they are. In total we have four couples, two adults and one sixteen year old child."

It was a bit of a jolt to realize that Bronwyn was considered an adult. Only one child left… Ducky caught a glimpse of Midori at the edge of the group and smiled. Well… until next spring, anyway. The groups collided with hugs and kisses and exclamations as though they had been separated by four years, not four hours.

They quickly decided on Dr. Stewart, Sassy and Tori in one bedroom, Rowena and Bronwyn in the sitting room in sleeping bags, and the remaining couples in the second suite. They could have all fit in the two suites but Ducky was sure that being on their own would be far more comfortable. Not to mention more private.

Mrs. Rickard looked at Ducky and Elizabeth. "We will be delivering chilled champagne to your suite as well as fruit and cheese in about an hour—"

Ducky exchanged pleased glances with Elizabeth; _far, __**far **__more __comfortable._ Tori waggled her eyebrows at them in a, 'Well, well!' look and grinned.

Mrs. Rickard finished keying and distributing room cards. "If you'll follow me…" She came out from behind the desk and waved a hand toward the lobby that showed a little more work had quietly taken place behind their backs, more upscale furniture and décor replacing the more casual design. "Welcome to the _new_… Regency Marquis!"

Maddie clapped a hand over her mouth. Too late. Tiny giggles escaped despite her best efforts. Dennys began to chuckle in response.

Mrs. Rickard looked baffled. "What did I say?"

"Nothing, nothing," Elizabeth said quickly, barely stifling her own laughs. "We just have… very fond memories of another Marquis hotel and… didn't know Marquis had bought the Cavendish Inn." She turned to Ducky and he could see the amusement brimming in her eyes. "I swear, I _swear_… Malcolm didn't tell me!"

"I'm sure." He slipped an arm about her waist as they followed Mrs. Rickard. "After all, you _are_ an honest woman."

/ / /

_Star __light, __star __bright__… __not __the __first __star __I __see __tonight__…_ Ducky dropped his glasses down his nose and the bright pinpricks in the black sky turned into a soft blur. _Tish, __I__'__m __a __little __late, __missed __that __first __star__… __but __you__'__ll __forgive __me, __won__'__t __you?__ I __only __have __one __wish. __Let __us __be __happy. __Let __me __make __her __happy._ A couple of fuzzy stars winked and blinked like Christmas lights. _And __thank __you, __Tish, __thank __you __for __taking __such __good __care __of __our __child. __The __woman __she __is __today __is __due __in __part __to __you._ It might have been his imagination, but one faint glimmer shone more brightly for just a second, and he smiled.

"Hey." Elizabeth slipped her hands around his waist, leaning against his back.

"Hey." He turned around and grinned. "Oh, _hey!_ "

"Well, I planned on going all out for our wedding night… but I fell asleep before you guys got home," she laughed ruefully.

"I know, you didn't get your backrub until this morning."

"But you know how it is… you watch those old Carole Lombard and Katherine Hepburn movies and you just…"

"Boy, do you." He held her hand and gave her a twirl. Yards of chiffon and lace swirled around her, a frothy silvery ice blue gown and matching peignoir. "Are you in there, somewhere?" She laughed. "Seriously… you look… _delicious_." He pulled her close for a long kiss. "I feel dreadfully underdressed." She had coaxed him into putting on pajamas and a robe while she changed in the other room and the simple cotton seemed truly plain in comparison.

"Ah…" She moved slightly to nip his earlobe. "But there's a lot of fun to be had in unwrapping a gift."

"Absolutely." He slipped his hands around her, over her hips, sliding over the filmy layers.

"Donald…" She drew in a deep breath. "Don't laugh."

"I promise."

She bit her lip. "I'm… ah, I'm nervous."

He smiled—but didn't laugh. "Nervous."

"I know this isn't the first time we've made love—"

"No…" Heck, the most recent had been Tuesday night, celebrating that Tori was working long into the night at the store and Rowena was out skating late with Abby. It had been a delightful cap to Grandparents' Day (and thanks to the empty house, they hadn't needed to curb their enthusiasm). "But it _is_ the first time we've made love as husband and wife." He drew her hand up and kissed where the bracelet catch touched her wrist. "For real, that is."

"You don't think I'm being silly?"

"Not in the least." He kissed the tip of her nose. "If you want, we can both pretend we're virgins, that we haven't a clue what we're doing—"

"No, no… no need to go that far. I like knowing things."

"Oh?" He grinned. "Such as…?"

"Let's see… the back of your knees. Big time erogenous zone."

He let out a deep breath. Good heavens, just hearing her say it, imagining the kisses, was getting him aroused. "The small of your back," he countered. "Little licks on the small of your back…"

"_Mmmmmhhhh_…" It was a combination of a sigh, a whimper and a moan. Elizabeth had a good imagination, too. "You, ah, you like it when I'm on top." She kissed him slowly down the side of his neck. "Especially when I squeeze you."

He was definitely getting interested. "The shower," he breathed in her ear.

It was a little disconcerting when she laughed. "No, no—sorry, it's just… A long time ago, Tori was taking a class in human sexuality, and I was thumbing through her textbook. Thank god she wasn't home, because I started reading the chapter about the _Myth_ _of_ _the __G __Spot_," she said dramatically, "and got to the part where they mentioned what techniques and positions would help … and I literally yelled, 'Holy shit, _that__'__s_ what that was!'"

He had to laugh with her. "Just think, if we had applied for a research grant—"

"Maybe they'd've named it for you. The M Spot."

"Oh, it would have been better to name it after you. It's _yours_, after all."

She took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. "Just so long as we know where the hell to find it now."

"I plan to do a lot of looking."

"Mmh—" Her eyes widened at the sound of knocking. "Okay, that sure as hell isn't Tish." She whirled around, glaring. "I'm gonna shoot someone." She stalked to the door and threw it open without looking through the peephole.

"Whoa! Oh! _Oooohhhh_… ah…"

Elizabeth's anger deflated. "Tori!" she gasped.

"Sorry, just—tried to call, the lines on this floor are down, I know they should have said something during dinner, but the girls just suggested going out for ice cream, it's only eight o'clock, there's this place by the university, it's just fantastic, but that's okay, you're busy, not a problem, talk to you in the morning." She leaned in, gave her mother a quick kiss on the cheek and flashed her father a nervous grin, then turned to leave. After a split-second of thought, she turned around, reached in, grabbed the _Do __Not __Disturb_ sign and hung it on the outside doorknob. "You look great! Night!" She sped off down the hall.

Elizabeth slowly shut the door and turned around, walking back with a look of amused astonishment on her face that undoubtedly mirrored his own. "Well, that was slightly bizarre."

"Thank god we don't have to explain the birds and the bees to her."

"Don't get me started on that one."

"No?"

She slipped an arm about his waist and nestled her head on his shoulder. "Tell you later. Much later." She rubbed her hand on his chest. "Time to unwrap presents." She grinned. "You always said, 'ladies first.' My turn… then your turn… then my turn…" She untied the sash to his robe, slowly slipping it from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. "Wear blue," she said firmly. "Always wear blue. Damn, you have gorgeous eyes and when you wear blue…" She let out a shaky breath. "Man, you're hot." She kissed him very, very softly. "You make _me_ hot."

He let his lips barely brush over hers, as though this were the first time kissing her. "The feeling is mutual." His turn. He slowly pulled the ends of the thin tie that gathered the robe at her waist, undoing the bow and letting it fall open. "Oh... _my."_ Long, swooping sleeves, high rounded neck and yards of skirting that would pass for a dance dress in a Cyd Charisse movie covered a revealing gown—a deep v-neck and wide armholes left little fabric to cover her breasts and the fabric clung to all of her curves in just the right way. He slipped the robe down her arms, stepping close to do it and wrapping his arms around her waist as the fabric _shhhh__'__d_ into a puddle at her feet.

She let him indulge in a deep kiss then touched her fingertip to his lips. "My turn." Her voice was husky, her want plain. She unbuttoned the top button very slowly… then leaned over and kissed the exposed skin. Another button… another kiss. She took her sweet time; by the last button, she feathered kiss after kiss around his navel—and there was no way in hell she could miss how aroused he was. She kissed her way slowly back up, nipping and sucking his throat as the dark blue top joined the robe on the floor. He grinned; _sixty-eight __years __old __and __I__'__m __going __to __be __running __around __with __a __hickey._ A phrase from his youth popped up. _Right __on!_

She reached for the waistband and he caught her wrist in a gentle grip. "Patience. Your turn, my turn… now it's my turn." There were no buttons, no hooks, no snaps on her gown; from the plunging neckline in front and back it appeared sheer willpower was keeping it up (or duct tape; Elizabeth had confessed to being quite the _MacGyver _fan). One flick of a fingertip and the thing would fall to her feet. Not that he was against the idea—but if she could make a show of undressing him, well, two could play at that game.

Starting just below her ear he kissed her very lightly, moving down slowly and kissing every inch of her neck, her throat, then her shoulder, her chest… one strap slid down, falling to her elbow, exposing one breast to his gentle attention. Light, barely there kisses, then easy suckling he knew she enjoyed. She stroked his hair, feathering her fingers down his neck. "I love how you do that." Her voice was the softest whisper. One last kiss to the stiff nipple, then he repeated everything on the other side, hands at her waist keeping her gown from falling too quickly. He slipped his hands down her hips, the gown sliding with them… then grinned. Beneath the gown she wore matching panties, a wisp of fabric that could probably be balled up and fit on a half dollar. He cocked his head; maybe a quarter. "Three for me… three for you," Elizabeth said.

"I like the symmetry." He liked even more the fingers running over his waist, just skirting the band of his pajama bottoms. Her hands slipped inside, firmly rubbing his buttocks then his hips, inching the new waistband lower and lower. "Hmm. Something seems to be holding things up," he teased.

"Literally," she shot back. She eased the pants past his erection, her smile growing broader.

He stepped out of them carefully and kicked them aside—of all times, this was one he really didn't want to call out for the paramedics. "I believe the last move is mine." A light tug and the pale silk and lace fell to her feet. She copied his action and they flew behind her, landing on the dresser. He twined his hands with hers, gently moving them behind her back, and kissed her softly. "Checkmate," he whispered. He pressed closer, his erection trapped snugly between their bodies.

"Ah… but checkmate is when there are no more moves to make." She stepped back—he had no choice but to follow—and fell to the bed, pulling him with her and landing half atop him. "I'd say… that was only check." She smiled, her eyes glittering dangerously. "Do you agree?"

"Well…" Her hands were still lightly pinned behind her, causing her breasts to thrust against him. It was quite nice, really.

Her smile turned into a wide grin. "I'll take that as a yes."

"You'll _take_ that? How about if you take this—" He pulled her toward him, rolling her over and straddling her so their hands were all neatly trapped behind her back. "And this…" He nuzzled her neck, licking and kissing, enjoying her wriggles beneath his touch. "And this? Will you take this?" he teased. He maneuvered his way down to her sloping breasts, raining kisses all the while. "And this?" He captured a nipple, pressing the taut flesh to the roof of his mouth.

"Yes—I will, I will, I _will_," she gasped, writhing on the bed. He could tell it was driving her crazy to have her hands trapped and not be able to respond, but it hadn't gone from the teasing of lovers across the line to cruelty, so he continued to keep her hands prisoner.

Granted, it would be easier to gain purchase if he let his own hands free. No matter which side, he swore her breasts were teasing him, laughing at him as her hardened nipples danced away from his mouth. He slipped one hand free, making it much easier to hold her to his mouth—not to mention the fun of caressing the soft mound of flesh cupped in his hand—and her right hand regained freedom with his left. She ran her hand over his back, then down to his buttocks where she squeezed lightly. It was one of the places he was actually a little ticklish, and he fought back a laugh. He lost. "Yours is much cuter," he teased.

"Ticklish…" she chortled. "The man is _still_ _ticklish_…! Bwa-ha-ha!" she laughed evilly.

"Just there," he objected. "And there!" he added in a gasp, as she tickled her fingers over the so-sensitive area right below his stomach.

"Maybe you'll let me free?" she teased, her fingertips a feather light touch.

"Not yet." Instead, he recaptured her hand, and withdrew her left hand, drawing them up slightly so that she looked like she was surrendering.

"Donald…" she admonished.

Grinning, he laced their hands together and kissed her. He let his tongue gently flick over the roof of her mouth and was rewarded by a throaty moan and her hips twisting frantically beneath—and against—his own. He lightly ran the tip of his tongue over the tiny pearls of her teeth, then another light circuit over the tender area.

"Oh, god!" she gasped as he finally released her lips. "Do you have _any_ idea how much that turns me on?"

"Oh, yes," he whispered, mock-evilly. He nuzzled her ear. "I've _never_ forgotten. Why else do you think I do it?"

"You are so wicked!" she laughed. "Just—wicked!"

"Wicked, eh?" He pulled back, staring down into her eyes. Her pupils were huge, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding dark blue band, and she was staring up into his gaze as though she were drowning—a word she'd frequently used to describe looking into his eyes.

"Very," she breathed. "Not that… wicked is… _bad_…"

"Wicked…" he barely brushed a kiss to her lips. "Can…" A line of light touches down her throat. "Be…" A more intense kiss in the valley between her breasts. "Fun…" He sat up slowly, releasing her hands; they lay where he'd left them, giving her a look of complete submission and surrender.

She gulped. "Very fun!" she agreed faintly. She stared at him, breathing shallowly.

He leaned back down and lightly touched his lips to hers, felt her shifting beneath him, her foot gently stroking his calf. They moved in concert, almost languidly arranging their bodies; still her arms lay above her head, as though waiting… He gently drew the backs of his fingers across her cheek. "Ealasiad…"

Finally she reached up to slip her arms about him and pull him close. He barely heard her whisper, "_Checkmate_."

/ / /

He didn't have to see her face to know she was smiling. He was, too. "Champagne, my love?"

"Oh… why not. It's a sin for the rest to go to waste." She kissed his shoulder as he slipped from behind her. She wriggled to a sitting position and piled the pillows against the headboard—"Jeez, they give you enough pillows for ten people, makes me wonder just what they think goes on up here."—and reached for the two glasses he held out upon return.

"Maybe wasting champagne isn't the only sin going on around here." He slipped back under the covers and made himself comfortable before claiming one of the flutes.

She gave him a suggestive look. "I'm open to ideas."

"Dear god, more?"

She looked offended. Or tried to, anyway. "What do you mean, more?"

"Well… I just remember you being rather, ah, creative for someone who, er—hadn't quite—ah… experienced—"

"Come on, Donald, say it. Vir-gin. Two little syllables," she teased.

He sighed. "Fine. You were rather creative for a _virgin_." She grinned. "Why does that delight you so much?" He narrowed his eyes. "I forgot part of that title—_sixteen_-_year_-_old_ virgin."

"You gonna put that on my headstone?"

He spilled some of his champagne from laughing so hard. "Oh, my heavens… wouldn't that give the groundskeeper fits?"

"And then some." She sipped her champagne carefully, mindful of the strawberry snugged in the bottom. "So… what was so creative?"

"The… pool?" he said patiently.

"Well… yeah. For you it would be." At his teasing pout she hastened to add, "Oh, no, no, sweetie, it's just that pools are a dime a dozen in Southern California. Everyone had a backyard pool, so that bit of sex lore got passed around fast. If pools were that commonplace in Britain, you would have thought of it first." She grinned. "Wait until we get home to the Jacuzzi in the bathroom."

Jacuzzi. Hmm. He felt slightly appeased. "And… the interesting things you do with food."

She frowned. "Food?"

"Food." He gave her a prompting look. "Ah… body art?"

"Tattoos?"

Good thing they had played Scrabble and not Password. "Let us simply say… that I have never looked at an apple pie quite the same way since."

After a moment she grinned. "Oh… oh! Apple pie!" She looked absolutely smug. "Yeah, that was kind of inspired. Although I've heard stories of better results with hot fudge sauce, ice cream, whipped cream…"

"Well, I've heard stories too—but that was a first for me."

"Really?" She looked interested. "Eleven years older and you had never run into it before? I'm amazed!"

"Well, good heavens, I didn't usually have enough time to be as—as experimental as we were!"

"Experimental?" she laughed.

"Good god, Ealasaid! We spent two weekends together—and we made love more times than—"

She held up a warning finger. "Word this carefully, dear."

"Than… I had in any relationship up to that point."

"What was your shortest relationship?"

"Ah—us."

"Ouch. Okay, besides us?"

"Ah… two months."

"When was the last one before us?"

"The summer before."

"How long did it last?"

"Er—two months." He looked embarrassed. "Same girl."

"Oh." She gave him a look of deep scrutiny. "What was the longest relationship?"

"Eight and—no, a bit over nine months."

"Nine months? And we made love more in _two __weekends_ than you did in a _nine-month_ relationship?"

"Well—we were both quite busy—"

"Whole school term?"

He sighed. "Yes."

"Nobody _ever_ suggested playing with food? Not even whipped cream?"

"No."

"How old was your first—ah—" She waggled her fingers.

He had to think. "Eight—no, seventeen. Eighteen?" _Nineteen? __No, __eighteen, __I__'__m __sure__—_

"How old were _you_?"

He was still trying to reconstruct dates and wasn't sure he had Georgiana's age correct. "Fifteen," he answered distractedly. His censoring warning buzzer was only half a second late.

"Fifteen? _Fifteen__?_ Good gravy, Donald, you got laid at _fifteen_ and you have the temerity—the audacity—the gall, the nerve, the—the _cheek__!_—to rail on me for being a year _older_ than when you lost the big one—"

He let out a long sigh. "Would you like me to call down for a thesaurus, dear? I'm sure there are a few more descriptive nouns or adjectives you've missed." He knew there was only teasing in her words.

"Oh, hell, don't stop me, I'm on a roll!" She was absolutely gleeful. "Fifteen. _Fifteen__!_ Oh, I am getting so much mileage out of that!"

"Yes, but she was only three years older than I, not more than a decade." He gave her a stern look. "That's what had me so—" He shuddered dramatically.

She leaned closer. "Just think… if _we_ were closer in age, Tish would have been older, too… and I would have been under her enlightening guidance for even longer."

He drew his brows together in a fearful look. "I don't think I would have lived through the experience," he teased.

"There's something I never told you."

"I…" He thought for a long moment. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

She nestled into the curve of his arm. "Remember when we all went to San Francisco for the day… then we drove back… and the others were stranded when the water pump blew in Gene's car?"

"As if I could forget?"

"Well… after you had gone back to Edinburgh, Tish confessed to me—"

His jaw fell open slightly. "Dear. Lord. She—she didn't sabotage Gene's car—"

"No! Oh, no, no, it went kablooie when they were on the way to dinner. They got it towed to a repair shop, they guy diagnosed a dead water pump—and Tish... well… followed him into the stock room. When he pulled a water pump off the shelf, she… bribed him to say it wouldn't be fixed until the next day."

"You're joking."

"Nope. Hey, twenty bucks meant more back then than it does today."

He looked at her warily. "She… sold your virtue for twenty dollars?"

"I'm sure she thought it was money well spent."

He shook his head, chuckling. "_I_ have to wonder… if she thought you'd chicken out."

"Oh, _hell_, no. I told you she was very educational after we started dating. Apparently after our sisterly discussions, she'd run the mile in two seconds flat and jump Gene's bones—Donald!" she yelped as he spilled champagne over them both.

"Oh, damn—I'm sorry—" He reached across her and set his glass on the table. He started to brush the splashed champagne from her skin and stopped, looking up at her with a slightly sneaky smile.

She grinned and slowly ran her tongue over her teeth in a manner that could only be described as 'licking her chops.' "Ever play with champagne and fruit, young man?"

He gave her a slow grin in response. "There's a first time for everything—and I am _very_ open to new experiences."

/ / / / /

**November 28/29, 2009**

"Jeez, Malcolm, you haven't aged a day."

"Yeah, 'cause I looked older than crap when I was thirty. I'm starting to even out. But you!" He waved a hand at Elizabeth and she blushed. "You look mahvelous," he raved in a fair Billy Crystal imitation.

"You can drop the flattery, I already agreed to do the show," she laughed. "Malcolm Fenn—may I present my husband, Dr. Donald Mallard—"

"Call me Mal."

Considering he was tiny, thin and pale, he had one hell of a grip. "Ducky."

Malcolm looked startled. "Ducky?"

"Donald Duck, Mallard—Ducky." He grinned.

"Ducky."

"Sit down, join us for coffee—" Elizabeth indicated an empty chair.

"Never have it be said that Malcolm Fenn intrudes on newlyweds." He cocked his head like an inquisitive bird. "Hmm. Already did that. Nah, I'll leave you kids alone—"

_Kids_. Ducky snorted faintly.

"We've got a lighting run-through at noon then full rehearsal at one, concert starts at six. Some of the interviews tonight, some tomorrow morning, everything done by lunch. Where's Ronnie?"

"Everyone else hit the buffet like a flock of locusts and they're playing in the indoor pool, last I heard."

"That girl has got one hell of a voice. You rehearsed?"

"She listened to the record and has it down pat." Elizabeth rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. "I'm so glad I have melody."

"Okay, you're definitely doing _Amazing_ _Grace_—what else? I never got your list."

Elizabeth gave him a measured look. "What do you mean… what else?"

"My first email, I said 'four or five songs plus _Grace__'_ and you sent back 'no problem.'"

Elizabeth stared at him. "When was this…?" It was the calm voice that, if Malcolm were a child, would bode ill. A quiet mom is far more dangerous than a yelling one.

He whipped out his PDA and tapped the screen. "I called on Halloween. We talked Sunday morning, emailed that afternoon."

She let out a deep breath. "Oh." She exchanged looks with Ducky. Halloween: the weekend everything went crazy. "I… forgot?" She looked guilty. "I'm so sorry…"

Malcolm sighed. "Let me find the kid. I hope you're as good at thinking on your feet as you used to be."

"So do I," she muttered as he scurried off. "God, Donald, what am I going to do?"

He thought back on the songs she sang in Napa. "All I ask—"

She looked at him warily. "Yes?"

"Please—not _The_ _Scotsman_."

/ / /

"May I look so good at that age," Ducky muttered.

"Mmh?" Dennys looked up from his book. They were seated at the back of the theatre while the assemblage stumbled through a practice run for the evening's concert, trying to stay out of the way.

"Pete Seeger… is ninety years old?" Ducky asked in astonishment.

"Mm-hmm. You missed the birthday special on PBS? Last spring?"

"Yes."

Dennys jerked his chin at the stage. "The guy next to Pete? Dark hair, glasses? That's his grandson."

"He looks... seventy, maybe!"

Dennys looked appalled. "His grandson?"

"No, Pete!"

"Oh. Oh, okay. Yeah, that I'll agree with."

The most difficult sight wasn't seeing Pete Seeger a decade away from his centenarian birthday ("Still chops wood and hauls water," Dennys added when Pete left the stage, carrying the banjo that was almost as old as he was.)—it was seeing Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey mustering through hugs and well-wishes and reminiscences. Mary's family had already reached the end of their tether and gone back to one of the green rooms. Even though they had known for some time that she was dying, it was still too fresh for them to hear hundreds of people say, "I'm so sorry" over and over yet again.

But it was a beautiful, beautiful tribute that evening. Many people touched on how Mary loved the holidays and had selected Christmas songs she had held dear; others mentioned her long history in the folk music and civil rights causes and chose songs of that bent. Still others chose songs with a special appeal to children, another 'cause' of hers. Despite the rehearsal of the afternoon, there were still tears and quavering notes in the evening—both on the stage and in the audience.

"Mary loved being a mother, being a grandmother—" That was as far as Elizabeth got before having to stop and swallow hard. "So it seems fitting that the harmony Mary sang so beautifully over forty years ago with me is being sung tonight by my eldest granddaughter…"

Ducky had been utterly enchanted by the Christmas songs that floated around the house on Thanksgiving. Bronwyn was the ringleader for both tree decoration and the singing of a wild variety of holiday songs—and proved to be an immovable object (and irresistible force) for both projects, even managing to coax Ziva into helping decorate the largest, most realistic fake tree he had ever seen and lending her voice to a number of songs. (And when Ziva tried to slip out of the music room, Bronwyn had gently herded her back like a straying lamb. Nobody who could carry a tune escaped her tender clutches. She had mentioned in passing that the Dali Lama said that when he was invited to someone's home for a meal and they served meat, he ate meat. It was more important to him that he be a good guest. (Ziva sang.)) But of all the voices belting out everything from _O, __Come __All __Ye __Grateful __Dead-Heads_ to _Angels, __We __Have __Heard __on __High_ it was Bronwyn he could pick out from two hundred feet, eyes closed and while in a conversation with twenty people. The fact that she had a vocal range from low contralto to high soprano—easily three and a half octaves, he was willing to bet (backed by a crisp c-note, if he could find a taker), as well as perfect pitch made it easy to pick her out in a crowd.

Years of singing with her grandmother 'just in fun' made it easy to get through their set. Elizabeth had told him she had used _Amazing __Grace_ as a lullaby for Tori and all three grandchildren, and back when they went to church on a more regular basis all five had managed a stint or two in choir (even bringing Sam in for a couple of years). Harmonizing came as naturally as breathing to Elizabeth and Bronwyn. _Amazing __Grace_ was followed up by a song he remembered Pete Seeger singing years ago, _How __Can __I __Keep __From __Singing_—he hadn't sung it during his set near the beginning of the show, so it was up for grabs and Elizabeth snatched quickly when Malcolm made the offer. They finished up with three Christmas songs, including leading the crowd in a fast-paced satire of _Twelve __Days __of __Christmas_ complete with sound effects. The rest of the performers—singers and groups he remembered from his schooldays and beyond, as well as the modern crop of socially progressive performers—brought out warm memories and songs for the rest of the concert, ending with everyone joining in the beloved _Puff, __the __Magic __Dragon_.

And there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

At the close, Paul put it best. "Mary is here with us tonight. Wherever music is, Mary will be. Wherever justice triumphs and freedom reigns… Mary will be. Mary… will be with us. Always."

"Amen," Dennys said softly.

/ / /

Elizabeth was unusually quiet the rest of the evening and the following morning. Ducky didn't press; he merely observed from a distance, offering a hug in passing or a ready smile across the room. He didn't have to ask. He knew that in celebrating Mary Travers' life she was looking at her own mortality—he recognized the look in her eyes and could remember the first time he had seen it looking back from his mirror.

She and Bronwyn had an early morning interview segment, meaning they were back in McLean by just past noon and Elizabeth was in her element, turning leftovers into all manner of wonderful lunch treats. Yes, she was mortal. They all were. And life—full of family and friends, kisses, hugs, sharp words, squabbles and good food… went on.

By mid-afternoon, the entire family scampered about the house in various stages of comfort ranging from pajamas and robe (Ducky) to sweats (Tori) to footed, drop-seat Dr. Dentons (Midori). (When she thumped downstairs, crossed the living room and hurried into the playroom, Ducky stared into space for several minutes until Elizabeth nudged him. "Yes, you saw what you saw. Yes, those are Dr. Dentons. Yes… they have a drop seat on the butt. And—yes, that was Midi. You want some tea?") Abigail was in attendance as well—she had protested long and loud that this should be family time, but Rowena and Bronwyn verbally beat her into submission… and then picked her up, since they had called from only two blocks away from Abby's apartment. Abby never stood a chance.

Now, clad in her delightfully _Night __Before __Christmas-_ish nightie and mobcap, she joined the others in the playroom screaming with glee over one board game after another. Even Tori had participated in the fun. (Dr. Stewart and Sassy had returned to their hotel for the evening, but Dennys and Maddie had decided to stay at Camp Hamilton for the night. "Closer to the leftovers," Dennys had admitted with great candor.) Elizabeth checked on the crowd several times (especially when it became suspiciously quiet) but generally stayed in front of the television, cuddled up with her husband of barely three days.

"Doubles again! Did you put a hex on the dice?" (That was Rowena.)  
>"What a thing to say!" (Abby.)<br>"You'll notice she didn't confirm _or_ deny the charge." (Dennys.)  
>"I work in law enforcement <em>and<em> I work for the government. Duh?" (Abby.)

"Okay, this is a weird run of movies for a holiday weekend, but I love them." Elizabeth settled on a station and set down the remote. "_Arsenic __and __Old __Lace_, _Ghost __and __Mrs. __Muir_ and _Harvey_." She looked up at Ducky "I don't see a theme, do you?"

"Other than delightful escapism, no."

The gamers worked through Clue, Monopoly, Mind Trap and a very loud card game Rowena cheerfully identified as Bullshit. "But that's the name!" she protested when Elizabeth gave her a dark look. She was on her way back with the latest round of post-lunch snacking for several players, everyone having been told to graze at their own pace until morning.

Leftover turkey tetrazzini from lunch carried Ducky and Elizabeth through Cary Grant; desserts accompanied Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney. Jimmy Stewart signaled the start of the wine course, including the last of one of Faith's offerings, a delicate German blush that packed one hell of a wallop. ("Enough of this and I'll see my own white rabbits," Ducky said, blinking hard.)

About halfway through the movie, the population in the room started to shift. Dennys and Maddie hovered briefly, long enough to ask if food was still allowed in bedrooms. "So long as the dishes come back before they walk down under their own power, sure," Elizabeth said affably.

"Hot damn." Her brother (another fan of sweats as bedtime wear) hurried to the kitchen while his wife just shook her head.

"I don't know where he puts it," she grumbled.

"Dennys always had a… healthy appetite, as I recall," Ducky said.

"Please. When they opened Price Club and all the rest of the warehouse stores, I fell on my knees in thanks. He eats more than any four kids we fostered. The doctor tested him for everything from a to z and just gave up. Said he just had a high metabolism and it would catch up with him when he got older." She looked slightly disgusted. "I'm still waiting."

Ducky laughed. "It is a little daunting—but I can certainly understand wanting seconds. Or thirds." He leaned over and gave Elizabeth a kiss on the cheek.

"I hear you've turned into quite the chef, too, Mr. I Can't Boil Water."

"Oh, he has a Boeuf Bourguignon that will make you weep," Elizabeth gushed.

"And a white chocolate raspberry cake that he _still_ hasn't taught me how to make," Tori chimed in, catching the end of the conversation. She climbed onto the couch next to Ducky, sitting cross-legged and carefully cradling an enormous mug of hot chocolate. "Oh, god, is that good. I almost hid the leftovers in my room."

"You guys are a match made in heaven," Maddie grinned.

Ducky glimpsed Tish's ring on Tori's hand and sighed. "Agreed," he said, smiling wistfully.

"Jeez, Den, did you leave anything for the rest of the crew?"" Maddie shook her head as Dennys made his way carefully through the room.

"A little." He handed her a plate. "That's yours. You're welcome."

"Thank you, babe." She stared at the plate in adoration as they carefully climbed the stairs. "Pumpkin mousse pie…" drifted back in their wake.

"That _is_ a fabulous pie," Ducky said, looking at his daughter.

She pointed to Elizabeth. "Her recipe."

Elizabeth pointed back. "Her execution."

"Plenty of praise to go around." He gave Tori a kiss on the forehead. She smiled and leaned her head onto his shoulder. It was taking a little 'getting used to' to go from living alone for almost a year to being in a houseful of people… but he embraced it wholeheartedly. He gave Tori's hand a light squeeze. Wholeheartedly—and literally. Drew slipped into the room, heading for the farthest bookcase while pajama-footed Midori slid along the polished hardwood floor from one end of the room to the other. "Midi, be careful!"

"But… it's fun!"

_But__… __you__'__re __carrying __my __great-grandchild!_ he barely managed to not yelp in reply. "I'm a medical examiner. I envision disaster rather easily," he said, trying to turn it into a slight joke.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and plopped into a chair. "You aren't going to wrap me in tissue paper for six months, are you?" It took him a few seconds to translate her strong accent.

Busted. "I'll try not to."

"Nah. That's my job." A massive book in hand, Drew sat down on the floor with a loud thump that rattled dishes on the coffee table. An impressive move for someone of such a slight build.

"Mmmh. Three-point-two on the Richter Scale," Elizabeth decided.

"No, no, I really shouldn't—" Abby's voice was faint, but plaintive.

"Oh, Abby, you're already adopted in so just shut up." Rowena's voice was too cheerful for her words to be considered an insult.

"Yeah, I always wanted an older sister." Bronwyn led the three of them into the room, dragging Abby behind her. "Now. Sit down, be quiet and enjoy the show. Want some cocoa?"

Abby sat. Abby was quiet. She looked up from her perch on the floor, looking rather like a large toddler with her plaintive eyes, and nodded. "Marshmallows?"

"Of course." Bronwyn was back in record time with two more mugs. Now everyone was armed with a mug of cocoa, with sizes from normal to the ridiculous.

Elizabeth looked at her glass of wine. "Do you feel slightly out of place?"

"Not at all. Chin chin." Ducky gently clinked his glass against hers.

"We-e-e-e-e…" Rowena drew out the word until everyone was looking at her. "Just had a family meeting." The younger members of the family nodded—including an embarrassed Abby. Ducky glanced at Tori, who shrugged in innocence. "We got rooked."

"Rooked," Ducky repeated slowly, glancing at Elizabeth. She looked as baffled as he felt. "How so?"

"Grandmother Julia," Drew said evenly.

Oh.

"Mom did a great job of being the bedtime story reader. Dad—" Rowena looked a little embarrassed to be speaking ill of her father. "Well—he wasn't big on bedtime stories. But Mom was really good and Nana just rocked the house."

Elizabeth smiled and laughed very softly. "Thank you."

"But one thing we remember was Grandma telling us about the great love of her life—"

Abby actually grinned at Bronwyn's words. She wasn't regretting staying so much any more.

"And that he had the most beautiful voice she had ever, ever heard." Ducky knew he was blushing. "And she's right! You have such a nice voice…" Bronwyn looked at him pleadingly.

"But Grandmother royally screwed us out of something good. So we took a vote." Drew leaned forward and plunked the book he had been holding onto the table in front of Ducky. "We want our grandfather—" He glanced at his mother. "And dad—to read us a bedtime story."

"It was five to nothing." Surprisingly, that came from Abby. She looked at him apologetically. "They made me vote," she stage whispered. Midori waved at him, grinning. Five votes.

"Ah. Well…" Elizabeth smiled up at him encouragingly. Her eyes plainly said that she thought it was a sweet idea. He shook his head, smiling faintly. He was constantly accused of going off on a tangent, dragging stories in where they had no cause to be—but he had also been called upon to be the adopted uncle and extra grandfather, frequently sitting with a child on his lap and a book in his hand long into the night. "I'd be delighted. Thank you." He picked up the book. "_Harry Potter_?"

"Hot damn!" Rowena exchanged high-fives with her sister. "You'll be here until Christmas!"

"Ah… perhaps something we can finish over a couple of nights?" Ducky suggested. "It wouldn't be fair…"

Drew sighed dramatically. "Oh… all right." He looked at his sisters.

Bronwyn tugged on Abby's sleeve. "You're coming back until we're done, right?"

"Of course she is," Rowena answered before Abby could.

"I—" was all Abby got out.

"Of course you are," Rowena said more firmly. "Now…" She looked at her sister. They hurriedly conferred; after a moment, Abby leaned closer and joined in their whispered conversation.

Ronnie looked at her in delight. "Oh, that's a great idea! Now you _have_ to stay!" She hopped up and hurried to the bookshelf, returning with a battered paperback. "We can do this in three days, easy."

"Oh, I love this book," Elizabeth murmured. Tori was grinning openly. She set her mug on the table and twisted around so that she lay on the couch, her head resting on his leg.

He glanced around the group. "I feel like Father Goose," he muttered.

"Father Ducky?" Elizabeth countered.

"Quack, quack," Tori added for good measure. Ducky just shook his head.

"Is everyone comfortable?" He could hear the wry tone in his voice and smiled to take away any sting.

"Ooh—wait a sec." Rowena ran upstairs and returned with a quilt and huddled beneath it with Abby and Bronwyn. "Okay. We're good."

He skipped past the author's introduction and went right to the first chapter. "_Chapter __One: __Mrs. __Whatsit_."

Midori clapped her hands. "_A __Wrinkle __in __Time_!"

"Yes," he said, "now, shush, children." There was a faint giggle from Rowena and he waited for the 'children' to settle back down. "_It __was __a __dark __and __stormy __night. __In __her __attic __bedroom __Margaret __Murry, __wrapped __in __an __old __patchwork __quilt, __sat __on __the __foot __of __her __bed __and __watched __the __trees __tossing __in __the __frenzied __lashing __of __the __wind. __Behind __the __trees __clouds __scudded __frantically __across __the __sky. __Every __few __moments __the __moon __ripped __through __them, __creating __wraith-like __shadows __that __raced __along __the __ground. __The __house __shook. __Wrapped __in __her __quilt, __Meg __shook_."

Over the years, he had frequently been told he had a nice speaking voice. Not just being grabbed for entertaining children, he had often been tagged for speaking in public and for several years had filled spare hours recording assigned readings for visually handicapped students. But it had always embarrassed him to hear effusive compliments about his work. There had always been a niggling doubt, the worry of, _Am __I __really __good __enough? __Are __they __just __saying __that __to __be __nice?_ that would worm its way to the surface. As he moved from page to page he glanced around room; despite being adults, or nearly so, all were listening to the tale with the rapt expressions of enthralled children. He took a sip of wine to clear his throat and smiled; their love for this simple act meant more than the most glowing professional review.

Family holiday followed by a bedtime story… So traditional. So right. They had all been thrown into the stew pot with no warning; blessedly, they had come together well. Instead of discovering Elizabeth as she was, he could have found—well, a next generation Julia Stewart. Instead of the delightful and mildly quirky daughter listening to his reading with her eyes closed and a smile on her face he could have ended up with a character out of a knock-off Tennessee Williams play. His grandchildren could have been wannabe members of the Manson Family instead of the slightly offbeat but thoroughly wonderful children they were.

Damn, he was lucky.

Even Abby was wrapped up in the simple fantasy (it made sense, since she had suggested the story in the first place); the entire group seemed soothed by the cadence of his voice, looking warm, cozy and relaxed one and all. _We __need __this. __It__'__s__… __like __a __verbal __hug __for __us __all._

He turned the page, glancing at Elizabeth and Tori as he did and smiling unconsciously. "_Chapter __Three: __Mrs. __Which_." _What __a __family __portrait __we __make,_ he laughed to himself_. __Father __Knows __Best? __Father __Knows __Nothing __at __All?_ He sighed. _Drat. __I __wish __we__'__d __started __this __earlier. __I __don__'__t __think__ '__I __was __up __late __reading __a __bedtime __story __to __my __thirty-nine-year-old __daughter__' __will __fare __well __as __a __tardy __excuse._

"_There __was __a __faint __gust __of __wind, __the __leaves __shivered __in __it, __the __patterns __of __moonlight __shifted, __and __in __a __circle __of __silver __something __shimmered, __quivered. __And __the __voice __said,__ '__I __ddo __nott __thinkk __I __willl __matterrialize __completely. __I __ffindd __itt __verry __ttirinngg, __andd __wee __hhave __mmuch __ttoo __ddoo.__'_" He shut the book. "End of chapter three, and that's enough for tonight."

Tori actually stuck out her lower lip. "Darn."

"Tori, it's nearly eleven o'clock. We all need some sleep—and a number of us have work in the morning." He gave her a meaningful look. "And school." He looked over the top of his glasses at Rowena, who hunched her shoulders up like a turtle. He patted Tori on the head. "I promise to read more of it tomorrow night."

She grinned. "You're on." She blushed slightly and laughed. "I feel like I'm ten years old."

"I'll beat that," Abby said drowsily, pulling herself into a sitting position. "I feel like I'm _five_."

"And I'll beat that," Drew said softly. He pointed next to Ducky.

Ducky smiled down at Elizabeth. She had dozed off somewhere in the middle of chapter three; he had noticed the heavier weight against his arm and hadn't minded a bit. If anything, he found it flattering. He gave—and received—cautious hugs and kisses as they headed off to bed, careful not to disturb Elizabeth who slept through it all. _It __can__'__t __get __better __than __this__…_

"Mmmhhh…" Elizabeth stretched slightly and slipped down to pillow her head on his leg much as Tori had done.

"Bed—time," he sing-songed gently.

"Mm-hmm," she agreed in a sleepy voice. "That was really nice. Let's do that every night."

"Take turns?"

"Mmm… m'kay." She sighed contentedly. "Donald?"

"Yes, dear?"

"One more chapter?"

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "Now… that wouldn't be fair, letting you get ahead of the other children," he teased. She looked up at him woefully. Yep, Rowena had learned the look from Tori and Tori had definitely learned it from Elizabeth. "But I'll make a deal with you."

"Oh? What?"

"You go up to bed with no argument…" He tapped her chin lightly until she sat up and he could kiss her more readily. "And I'll make up a bedtime story… just for you."

She gave him a slow, sly grin. "Do you think I'd ever argue about going up to bed with you?"

He kissed her again. "That's nice to know." He helped her turn off the lights and check the locks on the doors then started upstairs, his arm about her waist. "Okay. Once upon a time… there was a prince..."

Elizabeth stopped on the landing and turned toward him. "Did this prince go to the far-off magical land of California?"

He tried to look shocked. "Have you heard this story before?"

She smiled and kissed him lightly. "Not your version. Do they all live happily ever after?"

He smiled and nodded, considering. "I think so."

* * *

><p>27<p> 


	28. Lullaby Victorious

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lullaby Victorious**

_**Lullaby:** Music written  
>with the intention of soothing<br>("lulling") an infant or child to sleep.  
><em>_**Victorious:** Played victoriously, triumphantly._

* * *

><p>To: :undisclosed list:<p>

From: NanaAndPapa(a)atlanticserv

Subject: Party!

* * *

><p>Please join us in celebrating the arrival of<p>

Keiko Athena Theopopolus-Cameron

May 13, 2010

2354

5 pounds 7-1/2 ounces, 17-1/2"

and

Nicholas Hosato Theopopolus-Cameron

May 14, 2010

0006

6 pounds 2 ounces, 18"

May 29, 2:00 pm. (RSVP by May 27.)

Dinner will be served at 6:00 pm. Map and directions attached. Casual dress (the babies are quite proficient in the production of saliva).

* * *

><p><strong>May 29, 2010<strong>

"Look at you. _Look_ at you! You… are the most beautiful little girl I've ever seen. Yes, you are. Don't ever, ever doubt Papa."

All his life, people had commented to Ducky that his hands were on the large side. Personally, he had never seen it. No, they weren't small and delicate, but they were hands, for cryin' out loud. Just hands.

Now he could see what they meant. Now, holding a tiny baby to his chest, his hands looked like they belonged to a giant. Hell, he felt like a giant. He smiled down at Keiko ("She's as long as one and a half Barbies!" Ro had burbled, putting it in perspective.); no, he wasn't a giant… he was king of the world.

Discovering he was a father, a grandfather… he thought it couldn't get better than that.

He smiled as Keiko snuffled against him. _Oh, __you __sweet, __baby __girl__… __now __I __know__—__I __**know **__it __doesn__'__t __get __better __than __this!_

"You're doing the baby dance."

"Pardon?" He looked up reluctantly. He just wanted to stare at her forever.

Elizabeth, her hands full with Keiko's brother, was gently swaying to and fro. "It's instinctive. Baby makes a noise, you start going back and forth… back and forth… trying to quiet them."

Huh. So he was. She had been a little fussy when he first picked her up, but had quickly quieted down. "I never even noticed."

"The really bad part…" Elizabeth nestled the now-dozing Nicky to her shoulder. "Is when you're in line at a movie, and someone else's baby starts fussing… and you find yourself swaying back and forth to settle a baby you aren't even holding!"

"Hopefully they'll think I'm dancing."

"We need to get you a sack of flour. Like… twenty pounds."

"Whatever for?" The rumble of his voice in his chest disturbed Keiko; he gently rubbed her back with his fingertips, continuing the 'baby dance' and she settled back down again.

"Because when these little bits start getting bigger and bigger, the easiest way to do two things at once is to—" She angled out a hip. "And park the baby right there while you open the door or grab the phone or whatever." She cocked her head. "Of course, women seem to do it more readily then men do."

"Well, that's undoubtedly due to the physiological differences—"

She gave him a look. "Please. I grew up with anatomy books at my beck and call. And I know from personal experience how things just don't shift back, I swear Heidi Klum had Scotty transport those babies out of her uterus."

"It really is a miracle. I don't care how simple it is biologically speaking, when it's your own… it's a miracle." He laughed softly. "I feel absolutely mean. Here Midori has just had two babies, two beautiful, perfect babies, and all I can think is, 'Next year? Again, next year?'"

"That's not mean, that's being a grandparent. You get all the fun—yes, you do!" she said sweetly to Nicky, who made a little squeaky noise, turned over on her shoulder and went back to sleep. "You spoil 'em rotten, then give them back to their parents."

"Good plan."

He had been sure Abby would burst into tears and turn into a cooing mass of pudding upon seeing the babies. He wasn't disappointed. He had a feeling Ziva might—but would try to fight it. He gave himself 2:1 odds that she'd stand tall, make appropriate googly noises, but wouldn't shed a tear. He just barely lost the bet.

Tony was the surprise. For a moment the suave, devil-may-care mask slipped and he looked at Nicky with such longing that it was all Ducky could do to keep from patting him on the back and saying, "Your turn will come, Anthony." Then the mask went back up and he grinned, reaching to tickle the baby. "Cool! Miniature people! Amazing what they can do with microchips nowadays."

Midi and Drew sat on a couch, amused by the lighthearted squabbling in the room. "You've had him ten minutes, Mom, he's my grandson, let _me_ have a turn." "Come on, Duck, I've had more practice with babies than you have." "Then it's about time I had some time to train, isn't it?"

"It's really tragic," Drew sighed.

"Tr-tragic?" Jimmy Palmer had a near-horrified look on his face. "Tragic how?" Behind him, McGee looked up with a similar expression.

"The kids will never learn to walk."

Ducky whipped his head around sharply. "What do you mean?" He gently stroked Keiko's back. Never walk? What the hell was he talking about? She was perfect—ten fingers, ten toes, perfect kick reflex (he could testify to that)—not walk?

"Well, I figure this group won't set 'em down for at least five years, they're never going to get the chance to _learn_."

Midori smacked him lightly on the arm. "I live with this."

"On purpose," he shot back. He gave her a brief kiss. "Love you."

"Love you back."

Ducky looked down at Keiko who was blinking at him sleepily. "I would never disparage your parents to you, my dear, but you're young enough that you won't remember this. Your father is a silly, silly man."

"Something in the gene pool."

He arched an eyebrow at Gibbs. "And in case it escaped your notice, dear, your great-grandfather _works_ with some very silly people, too." Gibbs gave him a patient look and he sighed. "Oh… all right." He handed over the baby. "Now, support her neck—one hand here—"

"I've done this before, Duck."

"But not with my great-granddaughter you haven't. Carefully, now—"

With practiced hands Gibbs scooped her up and settled her to his chest. "See? Nothin' to it."

"Why, Gibbs." Ducky felt a hand slip into his and he smiled at Elizabeth. "You're a natural." She was smiling speculatively at Gibbs and Ducky made a mental note to tell her _**no**_. She was _not_ to try playing matchmaker with Gibbs and any available female in her universe.

"Yeah… babies and puppies like me. Women and cats—not so much."

"I question that equation," she laughed.

"Nicky?" Ducky asked. Her arms were empty.

Grinning, she nodded toward the corner. Abby sat on the stairs, knees up, Nicky supported on her upper legs, trying to get him to grasp her fingertips. Ziva sat so close she was almost on Abby's lap with Nicky, peering over with wide eyes and making baby noises in what he thought was Hebrew. "NCIS… the next generation," Elizabeth predicted.

"Kids better hustle," Gibbs deadpanned. "I'm gonna retire one of these days… but I'll wait as long as I can."

"Good. We'd want them to learn from the best." Elizabeth's tone matched his.

Gibbs grinned as Keiko beat a tiny fist against him. "Ooh, you're gonna be a tough one, hunh? You the tough girl on the block? Good. Keep it up. Auntie Ziva will teach you to kick—" He quickly edited himself. "Diaper bags." Elizabeth snorted at the substitution.

Ducky's head jerked up at the sound of a car door slamming. "Mother. And Rowena." Before he could get across the room the front door opened and Rowena entered, his mother holding tightly to her arm and talking a blue streak.

"—on the front of the car and oh, my! Trying to crank the engine in winter—" She broke off when she saw her son. "Donald! This little girl of yours is an excellent driver!"

"That she is, Mother," he agreed amiably.

"Grandmamma—come sit with us," Midori called, moving over to make space between her and Drew. "You have grandbabies to meet!"

Victoria clasped her hands under her chin. "Grandbabies!" she said in wonder. "I have grandbabies!" She allowed Ro to settle her onto the couch.

Gibbs sidled up. "Mrs. Mallard?"

"Matthew!" she said delightedly. "You've—you've had a baby?"

"No, ma'am. This is _your_ great… great… granddaughter." He moved to hand the baby to her, but she shrank back.

"What if I drop her?" she whispered, looking at Ducky in panic. "Donald—"

"It's all right, Mother." He tried to make light of the moment. "You dropped me once or twice."

"Explains a lot." Tony's comment earned him a glare from Gibbs; if he hadn't still been holding the baby, it would have probably been a head slap.

Gibbs carefully handed over the baby, gently moving Mrs. Mallard's hands to a steadying position. "See? Just like that."

"Oooh…"

"Her name is Keiko," Midori said gently.

Victoria looked at her in confusion. "Elizabeth."

Elizabeth slipped over and knelt in front of the older woman. "I'm right here, Mother."

"This is your baby?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "No. Victoria is my baby. Remember—I named her after you."

Tori stepped up behind her son, having collected Nicky from Abby. "And Drew is _my_ son," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Your great-grandson." She leaned over and neatly placed Nicky in his father's lap. "And these are _his_ children, his and Midori's. Keiko… and Nicholas."

Mrs. Mallard stared from Keiko to Nicky and back, frowning in concentration. "These… are _my_ grandbabies."

"That's right," Drew said gently. "Your great-great-grandbabies."

She drew herself up as straight as she could. "I… am a great… great… grandmother!" she declared in ringing tones.

"Yes, you are, ma'am," Gibbs said with the greatest respect in his voice. Ducky was touched to see a sheen of tears in the eyes of his longtime friend. "You most certainly are."

She nodded decisively. "Donald… it's about time!"

He couldn't stop the laugh. "I totally agree, Mother." He watched her fall into the role of grand dame great-great-grandmamma with ease. "I totally agree."

"Said it before, Duck. Say it again." The voice was low in his ear, the hand on his shoulder a firm clasp. "You are a lucky man."

He looked around the room: his mother, cooing over the babies; his daughter, leaning over to exchange smiling comments with her; his youngest granddaughter, leaning over the back of the couch to hug his mother and giggle at Kieko, relishing her status as the only aunt in town; and a roomful of friends, new and old. "No, Jethro." Elizabeth, still kneeling in front of his mother, looked up and smiled at him. "I am… a _very_ lucky man."

* * *

><p>~finis~<p> 


	29. Coda

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Coda**

_**Coda:** Closing section of a movement._

* * *

><p><strong>Comments, citations and addenda:<strong>

Most of the musical definitions are from Wikipedia; full credit is hereby given, no copyright infringement is intended.

Because the past is set, sometimes you have to move things around just a little for ambiance. For example, _Star __Trek_ was technically on hiatus (prior to cancellation) during Ducky's visit in 1969; but it was such a part of college life I had to give a nod to it. In other places, songs are used in 1969 that didn't get written until 1970 or 71… close enough. If this makes you twitchy, I apologize. Have some chocolate. Life will improve.

Any movie dialogue or lyrics quoted are credited to the best of my knowledge and, as always, no copyright infringement is intended.

If there is a credit or citation that is missing from a chapter, please feel free to email me and I will update the list. Thank you.

**Chapter One: Impromptu Cavatina**

"_You __can __never __go __home.__"_ From the song by the same name – Justin Hayward

**Chapter Two: Resonance and Prelude**

Despite what McGee said in Reveille, it is a _5 __year _medical program at the University of Edinburgh. The notation on page 1 was copied from their catalogue.

Gertrude's was based on an actual pizza place in Hermosa Beach—unfortunately, they closed years ago and nobody remembers the correct name. (Pizza joints came and went like the tide in the South Bay.) Pancho's, however, is 100% accurate. In the 60s and 70s they had the best Chinese food around; USC and UCLA students would drive down and pack the place on Friday and Saturday. Later the building was damaged in a fire and they reopened as Pancho's… with _Mexican_ food. I never ate there under that flag, so I can't say anything pro or con… but we sure missed the Chinese food.

Jo's Candy Cottage was in Manhattan Beach. There was a real "Jo" at some point, but I knew the place under the helm of Frank and Mary Sorry-I-never-knew-your-last-name. Award-winning (literally) candies, walls of doll furniture, teapots and collectibles—if you were smart, you stopped a Jo's for a bag of the good stuff and then went across the street to the La Mar Theatre for the Saturday matinee. Both are now long, long gone. Sib. (A sighing sob.)

Eternal thanks to my dear friend, Dixie, for her help in creating the Scrabble game from hell. The Scrabble game was based on two real-life incidents: a supervisor who could turn garbage hands into huge points and never ended a game under 300 points (and her kids play just as sharply) and a coworker's mother—who trounced her son in one game with three bingos, just for a start. For those who are curious, we actually plotted out the entire game, complete with points (available by email since FF does not support graphics).

As an aside, Hammacher Schlemmer now offers a Scrabble set to end all: The Rotating Oversize Scrabble Game. Quoting from their website, "a rotating game table to provide an optimal view for all players… 441 spaces, nearly twice as many as a standard Scrabble board's 225 spaces… the giant-sized board now includes quadruple letter and word scoring spaces… 200 wooden letter tiles (the standard game has 100)." I figure one of the kids will give this to Ducky for Christmas.

**Chapter Three: Syncopation **

Elizabeth likes to cook. So do I. (My biggest Mary Sueism is that my original characters and many characters I borrow are interested in cooking.) About 75% of the recipes I mention in any story are from my reality—I just don't cook that much since the kid went off to university many years ago. But I still make the best shortbread around. Not braggin'. Just stating a fact.

The peacocks of Palos Verdes are true, true, _true_. First time I spent the night at a friend's house, at about 2 a.m. the air was shattered by the most bloodcurdling scream imaginable. I shot out of bed, gasping, "Call the police!" My friend barely cracked open an eye: "Peacocks. Go back to sleep." (Sleep. Yeah. Right.) They tune up mostly at night (either that or there were so many other noises in the day, I didn't notice), but they will scare the wadding out of you.

**Chapter Four: Glissando**

Wakefield is an actual school in The Plains, VA. I try to place as many real elements in a story as possible (if they're being put in a positive light, that is—there IS such a thing as bad publicity, despite what celebrity promoters used to say). In looking at the programs at Wakefield, I've been sorely tempted to ask them if I can join next year's freshman class. I'm not holding my breath.

**Chapter Five: Duet**

Back in the 60s, it was a requirement of CA colleges and universities that you know how to swim; don't know if that's still in place. I guess the theory was they were right on the cost, better safe than sorry. (Or they were worried the next quake would be The Big One and California would be the next island state.)

_Happy __Birthday_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Preston Ware Orem and Mrs. R.R. Forman; Patty Hill and Mildred J. Hill  
><em>Green, <em>_Green_– mentioned, no lyrics written out – Barry McGuire and Randy Sparks

I didn't see the Moody Blues at the Hollywood Bowl until many years later but man, was it worth it. They actually played in Southern California later in '69. _Question_, of course, was not written until the next year; another bit of time shifting on my part.

_The __Day __Begins_ – alluded to, no lyrics written out – Peter Knight; ("Morning Glory" poem written by Graeme Edge)  
><em>Dawn <em>_is __a __Feeling_ – alluded to, no lyrics written out – Mike Pinder  
><em>Tuesday <em>_Afternoon_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Justin Hayward  
><em>Are <em>_You __Sitting __Comfortably_? – Justin Hayward and Ray Thomas  
><em>Nights <em>_in __White __Satin_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Justin Hayward  
><em>Question<em> – Justin Hayward

**Chapter Six: Partita Nocturne **

The Elizabethan dance Maddie is trying to teach Elizabeth… is completely made up. I couldn't make hide-nor-hair out of the dance notations I found (reams and reams of them!) and all of my friends who used to play ECS and SCA no longer do so and were absolutely worthless as resources. (Yes, I called you worthless. But only as dance resources.) I only folk danced way back in the day; I have no idea what the heck a pavanne should look like. So as the car commercials would say, don't try to follow Maddie's instructions at home.

SCA—Society for Creative Anachronism. Google it, you'll find all you need to know. (Amusingly enough, the SCA was investigated by the FBI as a subversive group (they confused _Anachronism_ and _Anarchy_—honest).)

Grauman's Chinese Theatre will always be just that—Grauman's Chinese Theatre. When Mann's bought it, there was a huge hue and cry over changing the name—when Mann's went belly-up, Warner and Paramount (who bought Mann's) changed the name back to Grauman's. There's something karmic about that whole exchange, IMO.

CC Brown's supposedly started hot fudge sundaes. All I know is, the hot fudge sauce was sublime. It was worth the drive and worth the wait.

**Chapter Seven: Adagio**

_Question_ – Justin Hayward

**Chapter Eight: Allegro Modulation**

The song _The __Maiden__'__s __Revenge_ is written by Tanya Brody and is performed by _The __Muses_ on the album "Passing Time." It is certainly worth hearing on the CD, but if you ever get a chance to see them perform live, do so. They are gifted, talented and funny as hell. You can find them at www. themusesmusic. com. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended; I hope this gives them tons of free, unasked-for publicity. (ETA: since I first posted this song, _The __Muses_ have, sadly enough, ceased performing. The CDs are, I believe, still available.)

_Kisses __sweeter __than __wine? _From the song by the same name – Paul Campbell and music by Huddie Ledbetter

The Nuart didn't open until 1970, but was the coolest revival theatre around. Best double feature in my memory: "Son of Dracula" (a _musical_ starring Harry Nilsson and Ringo Starr) and "The Fearless Vampire Killers, or, Pardon Me But Your Teeth are in my Neck." I kid you not on either title.

**Chapter Nine: Counterpoint in D Minor **

When JoJo's closed, I'm sure flags flew at half-mast. Best onion rings, best Monte Cristo, kickass "Ploughman's Lunch." Two decades and I'm still in mourning.

Pancho's—as said before, best Chinese food, but, no, I don't remember them having margaritas. So I was 99.99% accurate.

By 1969, the amusement park at SM Pier no longer had a roller coaster. That's just wrong. I gave it back.

**Chapter Ten: Requiem in Cadence**

Ziva and the quarterback is based on a true story, which I have used with permission and will keep the names of those involved private. (Unless Ziva grabs a paper clip and heads my way.)

_I__'__m __In __Love __With __a __Wonderful __Guy_ – from _South __Pacific_, Oscar Hammerstein II and Richard Rodgers

A note about coffee… Many years ago, Cost Plus had counters where you could get scoops of coffee beans or loose tea put into bags to make your own custom blend. Those days are long gone, now (darn it!), but I still remember the Number Fifteen Blend: Italian-Viennese-French roast. It was so strong it would curl your hair from across the room. It was scary. It was also my father's favorite blend. Tired of giving dad ties (that he never wore)? Coffee was always a big hit. The truly frightening part: he'd make a pot of this stuff for breakfast, _triple_ _strength_ (espresso before espresso was cool in the US)—drink a couple of cups and pour the remainder in his thermos. By lunch it poured out like oil from a crankcase that was 60,000 miles past its oil change.

**Chapter Eleven: Baroque Minuet in E**

"_Screw __your __courage __to __the __sticking __place__"_ is, of course, from Macbeth, as noted.

"It all comes together in the Times" was the slogan for the Los Angeles Times for ages.

**Chapter Thirteen: Interval Affannato**

_Tubthumping_ – Nigel Hunter, Louise Watts, Judith Abbott, Darren Hamer, Paul Greco, Alice Nutter, Duncan Bruce, Allan Whalley

_The __Murderous __Little __Toy_ – Mike Roberts (to the tune of _The_ _Marvelous __Little __Toy_ by Tom Paxton); as Elizabeth wasn't quite right in her recollection, the correct first verse (of "Murderous") and chorus lyrics follow (for full lyrics, check online):

When I was just a wee little lad, my Daddy brought to me  
>A toy he made down at the lab; it filled me full of glee!<br>A wonder to behold it was, with many buttons bright  
>From the moment that I turned it on, it filled us all with fright.<p>

CHORUS:  
>It went ZAP! when it fired; it cursed when it missed<br>And whirred as it took aim  
>It didn't know if we were friend or foe<br>It attacked us just the same.

**Chapter Fourteen: Sonata Ad Libitum**

_As __Time __Goes __By__ – _mentioned, no lyrics written out – Herman Hupfeld  
><em>Always<em> – Irving Berlin

**Chapter Fifteen: Showtime! **

_Come A__way, __Melinda_ – Fred Hellerman  
><em>After <em>_the __Gold __Rush_ – Neil Young

_The __Sun __is __Burning_ (mentioned; no lyrics) is an antiwar song recorded by Simon and Garfunkel, written by Ian Campbell, 1963. It's what I call a "sneaky" song; starts off so sweet and unassuming and by the end you're sitting there with your eyes wide and in shock. You'll never see a picture of a mushroom cloud again without thinking of this song.

_Three-Oh-Seven __Ale_ – Tom Smith

_Three-oh-Seven __Ale_ was written far past 1969, but there **was** a cyclotron in use at that time so I just teleported the song to the necessary era. As with so many other songs referenced in this story, if you get a chance to hear it… do. The first time I heard the song, we were driving the long stretch of I-10 between Phoenix and Tucson where, if you're lucky, you can pull in one radio station. I was very grateful the road was straight as a yardstick because I laughed so hard I would have missed a curve. And I don't think DPS would have let me go without a sobriety test.

_Banned __From __Argo_ – Leslie Fish  
><em>Wobblies <em>_From __Space_ – alluded to, no lyrics written out – Leslie Fish  
><em>Hope <em>_Eyrie __(The __Eagle __Has __Landed)_ – Leslie Fish  
><em>The <em>_Ballad __of __Transport __18_ – alluded to, no lyrics written out – Leslie Fish

_Banned __From __Argo_ is a classic of science fiction filk. Written by Leslie Fish (who was described and alluded to in the story—her guitar **is** named Monster and she **does** make it do things no other mortal can manage to do); the comment "Wobblies in space" is a nod to her song _Wobblies __From __Space_ (her first album came out in 1977; another case of moving music to fit the time it's needed as opposed to written). _Hope __Eyrie __(The __Eagle __Has __Landed),_ one of the most beautiful songs written about the space program, was actually the first filk song I ever heard (discounting Tom Lehrer, Alan Sherman and the like who really aren't filk despite their popularity with filk fans). And, yes, this is my biggest timeslip in my opinion—Apollo 11 didn't land until July 20, 1969. (The song using beer to propel a damaged spaceship to safety is _The __Ballad __of __Transport __18_—funny as hell.) _Banned __From __Argo_ is akin to writing trashy romances under your own name; in later years, you pound your head and ask yourself, "Why?" Everyone else thinks the song is funnier than hell (I am included on that list), but in the past 35 or so years Leslie has sung it to the point that she politely declines to do so any more, she's had quite enough, thank you.

I guess I just outed myself: I'm a science fiction fan and a filker. Oh, dear.

_May I__t __Be_ – Enya

Okay, _May __It __Be_ was written by Enya for _Lord __of __the __Rings_… but I swear it reminds me of an old Celtic song I heard decades ago.

_Isabel _– Maddy Prior

The commentary Tish reads for _Isabel_ is from the liner notes for Steeleye Span's album "Back in Line." While the album is copyright 1991, I _believe_ the copyright for the song is much earlier but have not found documentation to that effect. As noted in the story, it is written by Maddy Prior. It sounds so much like a traditional folk piece, I had no hesitation in moving it back for the festival.

_Barbara __Allen_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – traditional  
><em>The <em>_Water __is __Wide_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – traditional  
><em>Where <em>_Have __All __the __Flowers __Gone?_ – Pete Seeger  
><em>Come <em>_for __to __Sing_ is credited variously as Bob Stuart; (Bob) Gibson, Wright & Young; Traditional. On the version by The Muses, it is credited to Bob Stuart, which is the name I have seen most frequently mentioned.  
><em>How <em>_Can __I __Keep __From __Singing_ – Robert Wadsworth Lowry (public domain)  
><em>Wabash <em>_Cannonball_ (Originally from the 19th century, rewritten words credited to William Kindt in 1904; the lyrics quoted are from the version recorded by Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie on the album "Precious Friend.")  
><em>If <em>_I __Had __a __Hammer_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Pete Seeger & Lee Hayes  
><em>Alice<em>_'__s __Restaurant __Massacree __[sic]_ – Arlo Guthrie (there is a link online where you can read the whole thing—but, of course, listening to Arlo is much funnier)

Ref: the words on Pete Seeger's banjo. From Wikipedia: _Inspired __by __Woody __Guthrie, __whose __guitar __was __labeled __"This __machine __kills __fascists,__" __Seeger's __banjo __was __emblazoned __with __the __motto __"This __Machine __Surrounds __Hate __and __Forces __It __to __Surrender.__" _May 2009, Pete Seeger celebrated his 90th birthday and a concert was given in his honor. He barely looks 70, still plays like nobody's business… and is still playing that same banjo. Rock on. (Folk on?)

_Jack __Haggardy_ – Dan McGinnis  
><em>Barley <em>_Mow_ – Traditional  
><em>The <em>_Red __Head __Song_ – Jacklyn Erickson (see prior notes about _The __Muses_)  
><em>The <em>_Scotsman_ (alternately _The __Scottsman_) – Mike Cross; 1979 but I'd swear I heard the song before that.

A comment on **Chapter ****Fifteen: ****Showtime!**

When this story moved from a germ of an idea into an actual story, when Elizabeth and Ducky's history started fleshing out and I "met" Elizabeth's family, one scene was a certainty even before I had it set where it would happen—Tish's confrontation of the protester at the Napa Festival.

Two of my brothers served in Viet Nam, one aboard ship one as a submariner. We were lucky—both came home unscathed. One considered registering as a conscientious objector—which he was—but decided he couldn't. Too many of his friends had already served; as much as he was against the war, he couldn't sit with the idea that they had gone off to combat and serving as a c.o. would put him somewhere pushing papers.

We were also lucky in that where we were in California people were a little more, shall we say, enlightened in their treatment of vets and views on the war. Protests were against the war, not the men and women who had served. If we weren't enlightened and progressive, maybe we were a little sheltered. Because in later years I became friends with a woman and her husband—he, too, had served in Viet Nam; when he returned, he was greeted with screams of, "Baby killer!"… and someone plastered him with a dirty diaper. What a welcome home. He also ended up with lingering mental scars; he had to disappear every 4th of July—the sound of a particular firework (Piccolo Pete, I think they're called) sounded just like something he had encountered in Nam, and some of the larger, louder explosions were just too much to bear.

Today we can hate the war but support the soldier, and the Viet Nam veterans were some of the first to put forth that cause. Thank you. Tish says here was I was too young to know to say back then.

I don't recall the episode, but a roomful of us were watching NCIS together; Gibbs had a line where someone asked if he supported the war and he quickly came back with, "I support the people who serve." The whole room, ideologically far left to far right, erupted in cheers.

**Chapter Sixteen: Piano Operetta 1969**

The Shah—like so many other places and things in the flashbacks of this story, The Shah is no longer here. It was *the* place to take your date if you wanted to impress her. Not cheap; I never went there on a date, but a number of us decided to go as a group to celebrate the graduation of several of us—I remember kicking in about fifteen bucks for my part, and this was early/mid 70s. (We went to Shakey's the next year. Far cheaper.) (Don't tell me, let me guess. Shakey's doesn't exist any more, either, right?)

I once drove a car with a push-button dashboard transmission. It was… unusual. And yes, VCRs existed back then. They ran about ten grand, so nobody in their right mind would tuck one under the tree for Christmas.

By the way, mushrooms in the pot roast are wonderful. Try it.

_Puff, __the __Magic __Dragon _– Leonard Lipton and Peter Yarrow

**Chapter Eighteen: Scherzando Interlude**

Nope. They really don't have a football team at Wakefield. Not the private school in The Plains, anyway.

Does anybody else recognize _UFO_? The line about aliens being "hereditarially sterile" is legit, though I don't remember the episode. I just wish I could go back in time and tape that silly show, lavender wigs and all.

If you only know the newer incarnations of Dr. Who, see if you can track down some older episodes. There's a campy charm that defies analysis (and Jon Pertwee had a gorgeous wardrobe). The opening credits were like an acid flashback without the drugs. Cool.

More on Wakefield. They include all grades, so, yes, the senior class is only double digits. The whole upper school is only around 150. (I _really_ want to 'do over' my high school years and go there…)

"_A __rose, __by __any __other __name __would __smell __as __sweet.__"_ If you don't recognize Shakespeare's _Romeo __and __Juliet_, I am well and truly shocked.

Yeah, McDuck's wasn't pushing _Nightmare_ toys in fall/winter 2009. But it was just *so* Abby…

**Chapter Twenty: Progression Focoso**

Quotes from _Robin __and __Marian_ – written by James Goldman

_Nights __in __White __Satin_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Justin Hayward  
><em>I<em>_'__d __Do __Anything __for __Love __(But __I __Won__'__t __Do __That) _– mentioned, no lyrics written out – Jim Steinman

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Verismo (Act Two)**

Obviously, I differ from canon as set forth in season 7. From the beginning of the series, I saw everyone gathering at Mallard Manor for Thanksgiving and Christmas whenever it was possible. And that's how it will continue to be in my universe.

"Define interesting." "Oh god, oh god, we're all going to die." …is a quote from the movie _Serenity_ where the pilot of the rapidly disintegrating ship says the landing could get "interesting." Written by Josh Whedon.

The list of guests for Thanksgiving was inspired by actual Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at my Aunt M—'s. Only the names and particulars have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). If I included the more off the wall people and personalities that showed up at her house, nobody would believe them. There would be a chorus of, "Oh, you need to come up with more believable characters!" And all I could say would be, "These are the _tame_ ones." More on Thanksgiving later.

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Reprise Natural **

The time-travel movie Elizabeth is describing is, for those who didn't see it, _Déjà __Vu, _written by Bill Marsilii and Terry Rossio.

_I __Know __You__'__re __Out __There __Somewhere_ – Justin Hayward

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Vamp Till Cue (Reprise)**

Remember where I said the Thanksgiving dinner was inspired by memories of dinners past? You've got it. I skipped the religious and political wars (though they got pretty interesting for a while) and the boys tossing Kisses got off much better under Ducky's reign than they did Aunt M—'s. (And they were mint patties, not Kisses (patties sail much better). One took silver wrapped, one took red, and they tried to see who could land one farthest away inside the guts of the piano without missing it completely. Fortunately, they were discovered before anyone tried to play the piano. Even more fortunately, the central heating wasn't turned on. And they weren't brothers, so there were _two_ sets of pissed-off parents.)

But the size of the crowd sounds about right. (We never had an impromptu wedding, either. But one year we had two no-shows, turned out they drove to Vegas that morning. Surprise!) We served on the dining table, the sideboard, the bar and the billiard table, and you just found a place to park your butt, held on to your plate for dear life and ate. Nowadays Thanksgiving is never over 20 and it just seems so… tame.

The lines

_I love you.  
><em>_More than all you know.  
><em>_I love you more than children.  
><em>_More than fields I've planted with my hands.  
><em>_I love you more than morning prayers or peace or food to eat.  
><em>_I love you more than sunlight, more than flesh or joy, or one more day.  
><em>_Am I anything you'd want?_

are from the film _Robin __and __Marian_ though they are not quoted exactly in sequence. Written by James Goldman

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Interpretation of a Theme**

_Christmas __Canon__ – _mentioned, no lyrics written out – Paul O'Neill set to music by Pachabel) (For me, Trans-Siberian Orchestra makes it officially Christmas. When their pieces come on the radio, I blast it loud enough that the punks playing bass-thudding, obscenity-ridden rap music turn and stare. Ha.)

_O, __Holy __Night _– mentioned, no lyrics written out – Adolphe Adam, Placide Cappeau  
><em>Little <em>_Saint __Nick_ – Brian Wilson, Mike Love  
><em>Twinkle, <em>_Twinkle __Little __Star_ – Jane Taylor (public domain)_  
>I <em>_Know __I__'__ll __Never __Find __Another __You_ – Tom Springfield  
><em>I <em>_Know __You__'__re __Out __There __Somewhere_ – Justin Hayward

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Madrigal (Rewrite as Duet)**

_Amazing __Grace_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – John Newton  
><em>O, <em>_Come, __All __Ye __Grateful __Dead-heads_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Bob Rivers  
><em>Angels <em>_We __Have __Heard __on __High_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out (AKA _Gloria __in __Excelsis __Deo!_) – James Chadwick  
><em>How <em>_Can __I __Keep __From __Singing_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Robert Wadsworth Lowry (public domain)  
><em>Twelve <em>_Days __of __Christmas __(satire)_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out (There are dozens out there, from _The __Twelve __Drugs __of __Christmas_ to _The __Twelve __Pains __of __Christmas_ to _The __Twelve __Gifts __of __Christmas_. Take your pick. Me, I go for the Bob Rivers Group.)

_Puff, __the __Magic __Dragon_ – mentioned, no lyrics written out – Leonard Lipton and Peter Yarrow (The day it was announced the Mary Travers had passed away, I heard _Puff_ on one of our local oldies stations. I literally had to pull into a parking lot for safety, I was sobbing so hard I was a danger on the road. And when the DJ came back on the air, you could tell he was crying, too. I had to rewrite things drastically, because I had Mary peripherally in the story back when I was writing in June or so. My rewrite of her elements in the story reminded me of Allan Sherman's autobiography, _A __Gift __of __Laughter._He was Harpo Marx's neighbor; Marx died while Sherman was working on the book and he said it broke his heart changing every "is" to "was.")

_A __Wrinkle __in __Time_ was written by Madeline L'Engle, copyright 1962. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lullaby Victorious**

Much like Tish courting assault charges in Napa, this chapter exists because when I was still in the three and four chapter stage I said, come hell or high water, Ducky was going to get to rock a baby to sleep. Between scenes in the episode "Family" and hugs over seven years, it's plain that he's just someone who's made to cradle and protect a newborn. Some might call this the be-all end-all Mary Sue moment of this saga, but... Tish told me he missed out on four other babies; it would finally balance the scales. And after 'living' with her for the better part of a year (ye gods, it's been that long?)… I know one thing for sure: don't argue with the big sister. Besides—deep down, she's got your six.


End file.
